


The Last Years of the Fourth Era: Rain's Hand

by KimChangRa



Series: The Last Years of the Fourth Era [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2018-04-22 22:05:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 68,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4852199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KimChangRa/pseuds/KimChangRa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Off the coast of Dawnstar, a fisherman sights a ship. One day later he is dead, and the once-sleepy town is faced with a threat not seen in two eras—under the control of an unlikely and vengeful master.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is a stand-alone story to my Elder Scrolls series—very little that goes on in this story will have any significance to past or future events.
> 
> I'm also planning on experimenting with a genre or two here; I've long felt that I've never been able to write emotion particularly well, which has led me to shy away from trying out anything approaching romance or tragedy, or indeed, anything close to it. I hope this is something I can improve on in this story.
> 
> The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim is © 2011 by Bethesda Softworks; all original characters and content are mine.
> 
> Hope you enjoy! - K

_It is a time of uncertainty in Skyrim. Though the civil war that ravaged the province for years has finally come to an end, the victorious Stormcloak fighters have suffered the cruelest blow of all: Varulf Blackmane, Harbinger of the Companions, has been crowned High King after betraying and slaying the popular Jarl Ulfric of Windhelm._

_Though Varulf has pledged to "bring back the old days", when High Kings led from the front line of war over the throne of a keep, few have confidence in him. The once-powerful Stormcloak movement has all but dissipated; disheartened fighters left in droves to return to their families, and the peaceful lives they once led._

_And finally, the Last Dragonborn of legend, who slew Alduin the World-Eater three years ago, has not been seen since the Worm Cult incident of last year. The College of Winterhold, who has had the most contact with the mysterious hero, has refused to disclose the Dragonborn's whereabouts to even Varulf and his emissaries …_

* * *

_"_ _Suddenly, it was everywhere … We seemed to be witnessing the Death of Cats on Nirn … "_

\- Quote attrib. to Lord Gharesh-ri, Speaker for the Mane

* * *

PROLOGUE

_Dawnstar_

_20_ _th_ _of Rain's Hand, 4E 204_

Rustleif yawned as he tightened his blacksmith's apron around him.

It was not for lack of sleep, but rather for too much of it. For some time—weeks, months, or years: even now, he could not be sure—the entire town had been plagued by nightmares. No one could offer an explanation, and old Frida at the apothecary could do little to stem the assault.

Within days, the madness had spread to the entire population. Poor Seren had been inconsolable with fear the entire time, always seeing one horrible thing after another happening to her daughter, even as she held little Makela in her arms. And Makela herself had been shrieking without pause well into the night; Rustleif felt shivers at the memory of seeing his precious' face contorted in such anguish. Idly, he wondered what kind of nightmares a two-year-old girl could manifest in her head—but he quickly forced the thought out of his mind; that was over now.

A priest of Mara had arrived at Windpeak Inn one night, and assured them all would be well in due time. But for a week there was nothing. Dawnstar continued to suffer, Seren continued to sob, and Makela continued to scream.

Then, a woman had arrived in the town, and encountered the priest. She had never given her name, nor her intentions for being here. But almost immediately, the two had left Dawnstar, and that was the last anyone saw of her. When the priest came back the next morning, he was alone—and strangely quiet about the whole thing. By sundown, he himself had left the town due west, with a strange, evil-looking staff slung over his back.

Ordinarily, Rustleif would have been concerned about this—but whatever that priest and his one-time companion had done, it had worked. The nightmares had passed.

For the first time in a long time, he could sleep soundly.

That had been a month ago, and everyone, from Beitild and her miners to the Jarl himself, had been sleeping in since then. But as Rustleif was beginning to find out, too much sleep could interfere with one's daily routine. And considering the hazards that came with being the town blacksmith, Rustleif had to be very mindful of where he was, and what he was doing.

What he was doing at the moment lay in the slack tub next to his forge, cooling in the water with a loud _hiss_. Steam billowed from the surface in clouds that looked much like the fog that was rolling in from the Sea of Ghosts just to the north.

In a few days' time, this five-foot length of Nord steel would be Jarl Skald's new greatsword. Rustleif had to chuckle at the thought of the old codger still being hale and hearty enough to lift a blade such as this. He himself had never taken a stance during the war against the Empire, and Rustleif knew as well as anyone what Skald thought of the Empire. It had surprised him, therefore, when the Jarl had been happy to hear that he was content enough to forge weapons and armor for the Stormcloaks, so long as he could do it for the rest of Dawnstar as well.

While the hot metal cooled, Rustleif busied himself with adding some more fuel to the fire. He added the last of the coals to the hearth, and tugged at the bellows—once, twice, and thrice—to stoke the flames further. When he judged the heat from the furnace appropriate, he took the bloom of metal and lowered it into the forge.

Rustleif frowned as he stared at the empty coal sack; he'd have to send Seren out to get more. Come to think of it, he thought, Seren should have been up and about by now, helping him out with the forge. _Where was she?_

"Seren!" he called out.

No response.

"Seren?"

But again there was no reply. Rustleif's frown deepened as he made his way inside—just for a few moments, he assured himself; a bloom for a sword this large would take time to heat up.

He wondered if something might be the matter with Makela; she'd been lacking her usual brightness of late. Frida had written it off as shock from all the nightmares she'd been having. Seren had thought she might be sick.

Then he stepped inside, and found the toddler trundling around the table, thrusting and waving a honey nut treat like a sword in every direction, shouting in baby talk at invisible bandits.

Rustleif had to chuckle at the display of fantasy and daring—especially since he recalled that he'd had to lock all the sweets out of her reach ever since she'd learned to walk. Unfortunately, Makela had seen him laughing just now, and the guilty look that spread over her face only became more evident when the sweet treat slipped from her tiny hands, falling to the floor with a soft _plop_.

"I sowwy," she said softly, her face falling.

Rustleif could never say no to a face like that. He laughed long and hard, and swept the dark-skinned child up in a hug. "Who's my little warrior?" he growled playfully at her, pinching her cheeks and making her giggle.

"Me me!" squealed Makela—no matter what mood she was in, she loved this game.

"Haharr! You, you!" Rustleif bellowed as gruffly as he could, sounding almost like a bear. For reasons known only to children, that just made Makela laugh even louder—and louder still when she noticed Rustleif holding a pair of carrots in his hands. He tossed one to the toddler, seeing her round black eyes sparkle at the thought of more swordplay.

But before the epic battle of good-against-slightly-less-good could take place, Seren finally emerged from the bedroom, and Rustleif only had a second to feel foolish about holding a carrot like a dagger before he remembered why he'd come inside.

"Are you ready for work, dearest?" he asked his—noticing her own blacksmith's apron wasn't even on; indeed, Seren was still in her nightclothes, despite the fact that the sun was already up. "Jarl Skald's sword is in the forge right now, and we're fresh out of coal for the fires—"

"I can't work today," Seren said flatly.

So final was the tone in her voice that Rustleif stopped in his tracks. "S-sorry?" he stammered.

"I can't leave the house at all today," Seren said again. She looked a little irritated. "Don't you know what today is, Rustleif?"

The blacksmith shook his head, confused.

"It's the twentieth day of Rain's Hand," said his wife. "It's a very important day over in Hammerfell—the Day of Shame."

Rustleif balked at this—was it the twentieth already? The days had all seemed to meld together after Jarl Skald had announced his commission for the greatsword in his forge. The days of endless nightmares had taken their toll on everyone here as well, Rustleif included.

He supposed he ought to be kicking himself for forgetting what today was. Normally, he wouldn't have even given it a second thought. But Seren was a Redguard to the bone—more to the point, she'd been the _only_ Redguard in Dawnstar up until she'd given birth. And she had every intent on raising Makela as one herself—Rustleif's Nord blood be damned; for him and his daughter, this meant having to observe the special cultures and festivities of not one, but _two_ cultures as well.

The Day of Shame, as Seren had told him once, had started almost a thousand years ago with a devastating disease that ravaged the whole of Tamriel for over forty years. Entire cities, even provinces, were laid low from the onslaught—some were even completely eradicated.

The most prominent incident stemming from the sickness, Seren had said, involved a lone ship, packed to bursting with the sick and suffering. They had sailed from port one day, desperate to find shelter in Hammerfell—but they were turned back at every port out of fear. Neither the ship nor its crew was ever seen again after that.

But the people of Hammerfell later came to regret their actions—and so it was that the Day of Shame was created, a day when no Redguard was to leave their house or dwelling place, out of remembrance for the suffering they had been indirectly responsible for—but partly out of vigilance as well. For it was said that one year, on this Day of Shame, that exact same ship would return to make landfall on Tamriel.

When he had first heard the story, Rustleif had scoffed. Tales of a haunted ship filled with sickness, indeed, he'd thought. Even the most wasting of diseases could never last for a thousand years. But he had seen the resolute look in Seren's eye, and knew that he could not deny her this.

Especially since the steely gaze she had now looked no different than back then.

"All right," he sighed. "I'll go talk to someone at the mines. Maybe Leigelf or Beitild can spare a hand. You do what you have to, dearest," he told her, giving a little kiss on her cheek.

"I don't suppose Jarl Skald would allow you to take today off, either?" Seren said wryly.

Rustleif chuckled darkly. "Crusty old fool would just as soon set foot down the Black Door then wait another day for his sword," he grumbled.

Seren covered Makela's ears. "Don't talk about that foul thing in front of her!" she said sharply. "You'll scare the poor girl!"

Rustleif snorted. For the past year, there had been some shady types standing around the mysterious door that lay north of Dawnstar. Where it led to, no one knew—and neither did anyone care to find out. But there had been rumors, and plenty of them. Dawnstar, it seemed, was no stranger to darkness and blood.

"What do you think, Makela?" he grinned, kneeling down at her. "You scared of a bunch of mean old assassins?"

His answer came in the form of a babbled war cry in baby talk, followed by the tip of the carrot—still held in his daughter's stubby hand—rapping him smartly on the bridge of his nose.

"Oof!" he yelped, rubbing his nose while Makela giggled at him. Even Seren started laughing.

"Well, there you have it," Rustleif chuckled as he stood up. "I should get back to the forge. I'll speak to a miner about supplies for the day. I'll come back in for lunch in a few hours."

Seren waved at him—and so, Rustleif was pleased to see, did Makela—as he exited the house and made for his forge.

As he walked over, his eyes strayed towards the inlet that led to the sea.

The fog was growing thicker.

* * *

Some distance away, inside that growing bank of fog, Guthrum sighed and shifted uneasily in his boat.

The aging Nord was a sailor born, and had forgotten more about the sea than his greenhorn of a captain yet knew. He knew all the tricks, and all the trades … and all the superstitions with it. And those superstitions were part of the reason why he had objected to fishing out here in this rickety little boat, amidst this mess of fog.

It wasn't natural fog, Guthrum had told Captain Wayfinder—he'd stake his life on it. But the captain had insisted they taken on supplies before the _Sea Squall_ cast off for the College of Winterhold with their regular cargo of fine-cut void salts. Supplies meant provisions, and in this gods-forsaken spit of a town that called itself a port, provisions usually meant fish. So Wayfinder had given him a boat, a net—even a little pole and some bait.

None of it was helping him this morning.

And somehow, Guthrum could feel the reason why, thrumming in his bones. It was all because of this damned fog—and the White Widow.

* * *

"The White Widow?" his shipmate Ravam Verethi had said to him that morning, after Wayfinder had given him his net. "Who in the name of Mephala is she?"

Guthrum lowered his voice to a whisper. "Just to the east," he'd said, "there's a spit of land where this young couple set up camp. Madly in love with one another, married in a whirlwind romance, still in their wedding clothes. After their night of passion, the groom gets up to do his business with nature—and gets set upon by a snow bear."

He'd pounded his fist on the barrel where he'd set his meager breakfast here, to illustrate the quickness and brutality associated with those ferocious creatures. "Happens in a second, dead before he's hit the ground. The bride wakes up, sees the body, and is wrecked with grief. She dies not long after, so they say—but there are some who say her spirit still haunts this place, still wearing the same white dress as she did her wedding. They say she mourns her husband even in death. Others even say she wants _revenge_."

Ravam had looked skeptical. "You Nords and your tall tales," he'd grumbled. "Bad enough I'm sailing with a whelp what calls himself a captain. Worse I'm sailing with a _s'wit_ what can't tell fact from fiction."

The Dunmer then heaved on a rope, and lowered the _Sea Squall_ 's lone dinghy into the water. "Now get to fishing, fetcher," he said. "Sooner we have a full load of food in the hold, sooner we can cast off from this miserable place."

* * *

The insults had stung Guthrum, even hours later. Ravam had always been bitter since Wayfinder had named himself captain after the passing of his mother, but never towards anyone else besides the boy.

But all the curses in the world could never change what Guthrum knew to be true. Fish were supposed to bite well in fog like this—and yet he'd not seen so much as a minnow in the tide pools. And the sound—there was nary a sound to be heard: not the water against the boat, not the north winds against his face—

 _Wait_.

There _was_ a noise.

It sounded almost like … _singing?_

Guthrum turned around the boat in a complete circle, slowly looking for any possible source of the strange sounds. But there was nothing to be seen, save for the fog and the ruined fortress in whose shadow Dawnstar was nestled.

The sailor was getting on in years, but his eyes were still as sharp as ever—sharp enough to see some of the details of the half-collapsed tower. Guthrum had heard tales about this fort, of how it had been sacked by a party of Orcs, years in the past—but those Orcs had never been seen again. The fort was haunted, in one way or the other, and Guthrum would never set either foot or oar within the shadow of that—

His stomach turned over when he saw it.

To anyone else's eyes, it might have been a squirming speck of white against the grayish-black stone of the tower. But to Guthrum, that squirming speck of white had a definite shape and size. Tall and slender; five, six feet, he surmised, maybe more—the size of a man.

The song was growing louder.

_Or a woman._

The whiteness of the speck seemed to squirm even more, as if it was undulating in the wind … even _fluttering_.

_A woman in a white dress._

All of a sudden, Guthrum had forgotten about the fish, the voyage—even the fog. Without a word, he dropped his nets, grabbed his oars, and started paddling as fast and close to south as he possibly could, desperate to make for land—for Dawnstar.

But for an instant, just before the fog retreated behind him, the aging Nord saw his third odd sight of the day—by far the largest, and the most unbelievable—before it was lost to sight among the giant icebergs and the silver-gray clouds in the distance. It had only been for a moment, but Guthrum's eyes had not yet failed him—he knew what he had seen out there.

It was the bow of a ship.


	2. I

I

Ravam Verethi couldn't see a thing.

The damned fog had only gotten worse as the morning progressed, he thought—it should have cleared up hours ago! The heavy mist had swallowed up Guthrum within minutes of his disembarking the _Sea Squall_ , and the Dunmer wondered if it was even possible to see the water around him with how much thicker it was getting.

 _The_ n'wah's _going to be sailing blind on his way back_ , he thought, _if he doesn't come back soon_. The shoals to the north of the bay that Dawnstar encircled were dangerous for any ship that made port here, big or small. The occasional stray iceberg was just another hazard to be worried about—but this damned fog was the most sinister force a sailor could ask for, because it would mean running the risk of running aground, on either shoals or ice.

Neither was particularly appealing to Ravam, who was beginning to pity Guthrum for his lot in life today—but not as much as he pitied his own self. He was freezing, sodden with sea spray, and miserable. Most of it was on the part of Captain Wayfinder, who'd pulled rank not ten minutes after Guthrum had cast off, leaving Ravam the sole sailor on board to take the lookout post.

He groaned. _What point is there of standing watch_ , he wondered irritably, _when there's nothing out there to watch out for?_

Then, suddenly, he spotted something within the clouds—a small, grayish-brown dot in the water, fast approaching the bay. A few seconds later, Ravam realized that dot was Guthrum and his rowboat, but he immediately noticed two things strange about the sight. Firstly, the old Nord was paddling much faster than Ravam would have believed his ancient body was capable of doing.

Secondly, and more importantly at present, there wasn't a single fish to be seen in the boat.

Ravam groaned again. _Captain's not going to like this_ , he thought, making his way astern, where Wayfinder was seated on a barrel studying his charts. The Dunmer didn't know if Wayfinder would like this at all, of course, but Ravam was the more experienced sailor of the two—and right now, Ravam was furious at his shipmate.

"Guthrum's on his way back, Captain," he said _sotto voce_ to Wayfinder, whose rusty hair was all Ravam could see behind the unfolded map.

"I don't like your tone of voice, Ravam," Captain Leif Wayfinder grunted back at him. "And I'm guessing that means I'm not going to like what Guthrum brought back, am I right?"

Ravam laughed in a hollow, bleak sort of way. "I'm guessing so," he replied.

Wayfinder heaved himself upward with a groan, sliding his charts under the plate of cold, sodden flatbread that constituted his breakfast. "Wonderful. Can I trust you to hold me back if I try to kill him?"

The Dunmer laughed bitterly again. "Depending on what he has to say," he said under his breath, mumbling a quick prayer to the Reclamations under his breath, "I might kill him first."

* * *

Guthrum, meanwhile, hadn't felt his arms begin to ache until he turned back to see that he was well within sight of the _Sea Squall_ , and it was only then that he stopped his frantic rowing.

It had not been an easy journey back. Twice he'd almost run aground in the shoals, every now and again stealing glances at the old temple where he'd first seen the specter of the White Widow. And every time he paddled his oars, he could feel his empty nets brushing at his legs, taunting him every other moment that they hadn't been filled with a single catch.

He could only imagine how Ravam and the Captain would take this unfortunate news. No fish meant no provisions, no provisions meant no casting off, and _that_ meant being stuck here for far longer than any of them wanted to be.

But as far as Guthrum was concerned, that didn't matter to him anymore. He had to warn the Captain—no, all of Dawnstar. Something about the sight he had seen in the northern seas was chilling him to the bone, and it wasn't just the cold and the rime.

The White Widow had appeared to him, far off upon the temple. This Guthrum would dare not dispute—he knew what he saw, and he saw what he knew. He had heard her song—beautiful, lilting, and ghostly—and this alone was enough to convince him that the experience had not been concocted by his imagination.

As for the ship he had seen … Guthrum was a sailor, and being a sailor often meant ascribing to some of the stranger lores and superstitions that traveled the northern coasts of Skyrim, along with its many merchant ships. Plenty of shipwrecks littered those coasts … and sailors were far too often quick to ascribe the blame to a cause more supernatural than mere bad weather.

The legend of the White Widow had never stayed the same—Guthrum's tale to Ravam this morning had only been its latest, most recent iteration. Other, more outlandish claims had dominated the history of this myth; over the course of time, the specter had been anything from a wispmother, a rare but deadly spirit, to the ghost of a vengeful Falmer, one of the ice-elves of the elder days. All they had in common was an apparent power to command the seas to their will, and using that power to wipe out anyone who had the misfortune to look this spirit in the eye.

Guthrum was beginning to wonder if he'd seen that power on display now. His bad luck at finding even a single fish was easy enough to explain—they'd sensed the spirit just like he had, heard his song through the water, and fled. Out of fear or self-preservation, Guthrum could not tell, and neither did he want to know—he wasn't a fish, after all, and he wasn't about to ask the court wizard of Dawnstar to solve that particular conundrum, either.

Besides, Guthrum was certain that the song he had been hearing wasn't truly meant to scare anything _away_ —but to call something else _toward_ it instead. That ship, for the brief moment his eyes had seen it, looked as though it had been through the Deadlands, the Quagmire, and several realms of Oblivion that Guthrum dared not imagine. The timber of the hull looked weatherworn; the sails patched, frayed, and punctured—completely at odds with how any seaworthy ship ought to look!

And then it had hit him that the White Widow's song might have been something more than a song … a message, sent across the wind and waves for anyone to hear its mysterious words … and that ship had responded.

Guthrum was distracted from his thoughts when he finally saw the _Sea Squall_ come up alongside, out of the corner of his eye. He quickly shipped oars, and grasped out blindly at one of the shields that lined the port side of the vessel so as to steady himself.

His hand never got that far. Before Guthrum knew it, a hand had clamped down upon his wrist, and hauled him bodily off the boat and onto the ship, depositing him unceremoniously onto the deck of the ship. He swore at the top of his voice as a sharp pain flared up in his back, and looked up—

—only to sink back into the deck at the murderous expression of Captain Wayfinder.

"Two hours you were out there," the young captain snarled at him. "Two hours, you were supposed to be catching fish for the hold! And what do I find in your nets? Nothing! Not even seaweed!"

Guthrum, stunned by the tirade from Wayfinder, saw Ravam Verethi behind him—but there was no mercy to be found in the Dunmer's eyes. He was clearly just as angry as their captain.

"You had better give me a good explanation why your nets are as empty as they were when I sent you out to fill them up," Wayfinder said. "And you had better impress me, Guthrum."

The old sailor gulped. What was there to say? "I-I tried, sir," he wheezed out, doing his best to ignore the stinging sensations that still plagued his back. The salty air did nothing to dull the pain. "I must have c-cast my nets for a whole mile around—b-but I didn't get a single one! Not even a bite!"

"Impossible." Wayfinder's face was stony. "This should be perfect fishing weather."

"T-that's what I thought, too, C-captain," stammered Guthrum as he slowly tried to regain command of his voice. "I thought the fog would bring them all out—but nothing! I t-told Ravam I didn't want to go out there—t-told him it'd be a waste of t-time—"

The captain whirled on Ravam, who snorted. "Guthrum said something about the White Widow conjuring all this fog," he said with a dirty glare at the Nord. "I figured he was just speaking more tall tales you Nords like to talk about—no offense," he added hastily at Wayfinder's expression. "I told him he was talking bilge."

Wayfinder's frown deepened, creasing his brow even further. "What's this about a White Widow?"

"I heard her sing!" Guthrum shouted out, before Ravam could get a word in edgewise, and jeopardize his position further still. "I saw her, plain as day, on the top of Nightcaller Temple! White dress fluttering in the winds, voice singing to the seas—it's an omen, Captain! She's bewitched the fish—she's calling the ship with her song!"

"Guthrum, man, listen to sense!" Wayfinder bellowed. "There is nothing at Nightcaller Temple. The place is bewitched. I don't care what that priest of Mara said—no one in their right mind would ever go to that ruin!"

But Guthrum wasn't listening. "I _saw_ her!" he repeated, now mere inches from his captain's face, blowing spittle into Wayfinder's rusty hair. "My eyes are sharper than any sailor on the northern coast, Captain. I swear on the Nine that what I'm saying is true!"

"What ship is this, anyhow? More to the point, why would _any_ ship make port here?" Ravam wanted to know, still very skeptical of Guthrum's account. "The lighthouses either side of this town would've let it know this bay was full. Dawnstar can't handle more than one merchant ship—and right now, we're _aboard_ that one merchant ship!"

"He's right," said Wayfinder. "You're not impressing me with this story of yours so far, _friend_." He emphasized the last word in a tone that, at the moment, suggested anything but. "Besides, Ravam and I didn't hear a single bit of singing on deck. If this so-called 'White Widow' was at Nightcaller like you say, Ravam would have seen her, and I'd have heard her as well."

"What—?" But even before he whirled towards the summit of the temple, Guthrum already knew what he would find. The half-collapsed tower showed no speck of fluttering white gossamer. The old sailor did not even bother to angle his ears towards Nightcaller; he already knew that the song had vanished into the wind, along with its singer.

"We didn't see a thing," Ravam confirmed upon Guthrum's pleading look, "and we didn't hear a thing, either."

The dark elf sighed, shaking his head in pity as he turned to Wayfinder. "Captain, I'm thinking he's starting to get delirious. We've been stuck in this blasted puddle for too long, and I think it's starting to change Guthrum. He's been away from the sea too long—it's all he really seems to know. We'll send him out later today with more nets—maybe the fog just isn't making them bite right now. We'll see how well we fare with a clearer sky."

Wayfinder seemed to agree—but Guthrum was having none of it. "I told you," he growled at Ravam. "It's not the fog, it's that Daedra-forsaken ship!" He thumbed over his shoulder at the oppressive fog. "I'm going to keep on saying this until I—get back here!" he cried, for Wayfinder and Ravam had turned away from him with disgusted sighs, returning to their duties as if Guthrum did not exist.

"I'm trying to tell you we're all in danger here!" Guthrum barged in front of the Dunmer as he was about to climb up the _Sea Squall's_ single mast and inspect its sail. "Damn it all—why won't you _listen_ to me?!"

At that point, the frustration that had been building up inside Guthrum all morning finally boiled over. As Ravam moved to shove him aside and climb up the mast, the old Nord blocked Ravam's arm.

And punched him in the face.

The impact of flesh against flesh seemed to echo all throughout Dawnstar, dense fog be damned, and within seconds of his actions Guthrum had noticed that the ship had suddenly gone very quiet, and his hand was starting to ache. He saw Ravam writhing on the deck and cursing, a torrent of blood flowing from his shattered nose—

Guthrum stepped back instinctively as the thunderous face of Captain Wayfinder filled his vision completely. His stomach seemed to dissolve on the spot, and he felt nausea clench at his insides as he awaited Wayfinder's judgment.

_"Guard!"_

A nearby Stormcloak soldier, faceless under his helm, marched up the gangplank and across the deck to Wayfinder, who immediately pointed at the luckless Guthrum. "Lock this man up for assault and dereliction of duty. I'll come back for him on the morrow—if I'm feeling _generous_ ," Wayfinder added with a venomous glare at the old Nord.

Guthrum had no time to argue before a powerful hand seized him by the shoulder. "All right, sailor," rumbled the guard through his mask. "Just come with me, nice and easy."

But Guthrum wasn't going to resign himself to his fate just yet. "That ship is still out there!" he called back to Wayfinder as he helped Ravam to his feet. "My eyes haven't failed me yet—I know what I saw!

"It's coming for us!" he cried, as the inexorable force of the guard took a tighter hold on his shoulder, wrenching him forward and away from the Captain. "I'll stake it on the Eight if I have to— _that ship is heading straight for Dawnstar!_ "

He tried to spin round for a final retort, but the guard had quickly tired of his shouting. Guthrum felt a dull blow to his stomach, and the old sailor immediately collapsed upon the guard's fist, bent double and coughing as the wind was driven completely out of him.

"That'll be enough of that," groused the soldier. "You have anything else to say?"

Guthrum was too busy coughing and wheezing to reply. It hurt to even breathe, and he felt his eyes begin to water as the pain throbbed through his body.

"That's what I thought," said the guard, frog-marching him toward the town barracks, where lay the town jail. It was rarely used except for the odd charge of drunken or disorderly conduct, and even then, most offenders didn't stay for much longer than a day.

But Guthrum was too preoccupied about this silver lining to care too much—he was still too busy coughing.

* * *

The scene did not go unnoticed by a few pairs of eyes in Dawnstar proper. One of those pairs belonged to Rustleif, looking rather less dingy than might be expected of the town blacksmith. But though his eyes never left the sight of the sailor being dragged away, he paid the altercation no further mind, as he had other matters to attend to.

After Captain Jod, Jarl Skald's housecarl, had showed up on his front door earlier this morning, telling him to expect his charge within the hour, Rustleif had immediately set about cleaning up his own person and as much of the forge he could spare with the remainder.

Skald, however, had laughed off the grimy appearance when he'd arrived. "I'd be more worried about how my sword was going if I _didn't_ see you black with soot," the old codger had remarked with a gruff laugh. "The dirtier a blacksmith works, the harder he works, that's what I always say.

"Now," the Jarl said with a phlegmy cough as he turned his attention to the business at hand, "how're things coming along with the sword?"

Rustleif indicated the length of metal in his slack tub. "I'm still working on shaping the blade," he explained. "Would've been farther along, but I had to grab some coal from Iron-Breaker mine to feed the fires. I was on my last bag, and Seren isn't able to help out today, so progress is _slightly_ behind where I was expecting to be."

Skald made a noncommittal "hmm." "Something the matter with the baby?" he asked.

The blacksmith shook his head, as he placed the nascent blade back in his forge. "No—some sort of cultural observation," Rustleif said as he began to work the bellows. "Today's the Day of Shame over in Hammerfell. You know how she is about celebrating Redguard tradition."

Another "hmm." "This is Skyrim," sniffed Skald. "People want to live here, they ought to pay more attention to our culture—show it a little more respect. The Empire didn't have a lot of respect for the Nine, and look where it got them! She wants to live her life like one of them Alik'r, she can go and join them," he huffed under his breath.

Rustleif had heard, and though he was used to his Jarl being a staunch supporter of the Stormcloaks, that didn't mean he never took umbrage with his more inflammatory statements in the past. "We do have a daughter, you know," he said dryly to the ruler of the Pale, striking the molten blade with his hammer upon the blackened anvil. "And while she's doing her best to raise Makela a much a Redguard as she is, I'm doing my best to raise her just as much a Nord as I am at the same time." He thumped a fist to his chest. "She'll be a damn fine warrior, old man," he added proudly.

Skald's eyes were still sharp enough to notice the glare with which Rustleif had fixed him. Fortunately, it seemed, he was also keen enough to know when to recognize defeat. "I've no doubt she will, friend," he said. "I just hope we'll be at peace by the time that happens. I don't like the times we have ahead of us."

Rustleif barely caught the last words, having placed the sizzling swordblade back in his slack tub to cool at that moment. "After everything that happened in Solitude last year … that necromancer attack … the Emperor dead … Ulfric dead … "

He blinked, and Rustleif was surprised to see a bit of wetness forming on the old codger's eyes. The two men were too far away for it to be a stray bit of sea spray, either. But Rustleif did not acknowledge the rare showing of sentiment from his lord any further, only nodding and saying, "Aye. Hell of a way to go, the way Ulfric did.

"At least he went down fighting," he added grimly. "A true son of Skyrim couldn't ask for more than that."

Skald said nothing, but merely nodded solemnly.

Rustleif, in an effort to break the sudden melancholy mood, got up at that point to feed more coals to his fire. On the return trip, he saw it. The clouds of oppressive fog to the north had opened up briefly, just for an instant, and the brief clarity allowed his roving eyes a split-second view of the shoals beyond the bay, and the icebergs beyond that.

Alongside a particularly large iceberg, far off in the distance, was a dark-red _shape_ —not a big one; Rustleif could cover it by putting his thumb at arm's length from his face. But a quick scan of the horizon, before it was once again swallowed up by the heavy mist, told him that that burgundy shape was likely a ship—and a fair-size one, too. Nothing quite like the _Katariah_ , of course—the Emperor's opulent vessel that still lay anchored in the delta of the River Karth, as dead as its crew and charge—but a fairly large ship regardless.

Skald had seen Rustleif scanning the horizon, and now had turned in the same direction—though he had turned too late: the apparition had vanished as quickly as it had come. "What is it?" the Jarl inquired sharply.

Rustleif frowned at the closing clouds of mist, but shook his head at length. "Nothing, milord," he shrugged, tossing his coal in the forge after a long while. "Saw something out to the north for a moment, but it's gone now—fog's covered it all up. Looked like some kind of ship. Dark red sails, too, unless my eyes were playing tricks on me."

Skald snorted; a loud, rude noise. "Don't know why any ship would want to make berth in this puddle of bilge," he grunted. "Only ship that ever seems to is old Wayfinder's, and seeing as he's sent his own crew to the jail just now, I don't think the _Sea Squall's_ going to be hauling anchor any time soon."

Meaning the bay was full enough already, Rustleif thought—and that ship had looked a damn sight bigger than the _Sea Squall_. _It'd be better off making port in Solitude or Windhelm_.

"I should be getting back to the longhouse," Skald finally said, hauling his ancient frame to his feet with some difficulty. "Maybe I'll have Jod take a couple men up to the temple as lookouts, see what they can see through this damned fog. We'll see about that ship then. I'll come back later in the afternoon."

Rustleif nodded to show his comprehension as he busied himself with the hammer once again, applying somewhat more force than might be necessary in order to drive the split-second image of what he had just seen out of his head.

But even so, he could not stop himself from checking the coastline every few seconds, wondering if the sight he had seen was really an illusion after all.

* * *

Unbeknownst to either Skald or Rustleif, however, two more pairs of ears had overheard their conversation.

One of them was much too young to understand the ramifications of the muffled tones, but Seren had understood them well enough—and Rustleif's claim of seeing something in the Sea of Ghosts had set off icy shivers of fear down her spine.

_—some kind of ship—dark red sails—_

_It can't be!_ she'd thought, heart racing as she pulled her ear away from the wall, Makela's dirty clothes cast aside to the floor. Makela herself was still nursing, her loud, noisy sucks filling the tiny bedroom. But both of these things had been driven from Seren's mind completely.

_It's been almost a millennium since then—could it really have survived all this time at sea?_

Rustleif had often said Seren had a good head on her shoulders. As worried as she was about raising their daughter according to the traditions of both husband and wife, she was also worried about the stability of their family. Neither deferred to the other more than was necessary, balancing out the housework whenever possible, and doing their own part to raise Makela well.

And right now, Seren was very much concerned for the family she and Rustleif had been working so hard to raise. For like every proud Redguard, she had a very good idea about what her husband had seen just now—what Skald had failed to see. Her only hope was that it was too far away to cause any harm to Dawnstar—or barring that, far enough away that there might yet be time to avert the worst of the suffering to come.

 _I have to be quick_ , she thought as she hurried out of the room as fast as she could while still nursing Makela. _I've got to warn someone—anyone!_ But that simply invited the first question—who would come?

And the even tougher question—would they have what it took to save this town from possible danger?

Seren's first, obvious choice was the Last Dragonborn. The legendary hero of Skyrim, who had saved all of existence from the dragon Alduin three years ago, would surely know how to deal with such a threat—except for the fact that no one in Skyrim knew how to contact him. The new High King and the mages of Winterhold were his closest confidants, but even they were unable—or, she suspected, _unwilling_ —to divulge his whereabouts.

According to hearsay around town, the Dragonborn had last been sighted boarding a ship in Windhelm about nine months ago. From there, no one could agree on where he was, and Seren had been forced to accept that the man could be anywhere in Tamriel right now—perhaps even beyond, on a whole other continent of Nirn!

Trying to contact him would be folly, she reluctantly decided—which meant that her other options had to be much closer to hand. That left only one realistic choice … but again, Seren was not willing to make that journey. It would take too much time to get there, she knew—by the time she came back with help, there might not be a Dawnstar left to save!

And then there was her family. For only a moment, Seren had pondered the thought of breaking tradition and leaving her house today, if only to deliver her message personally. But she would not abandon her family. Even if she took Makela with her, that still left Rustleif to mind the home and hearth. Taking him with her—while it would ensure the safety of her family—would also mean Dawnstar would be minus one of their most important citizens.

She had made her decision then: she would stay, and do everything she could to protect her loving husband and precious daughter. But matter how she looked at it, the truth was clear to her: _This town is on its own._

 _No one is going to help us—_ unless _._

She found a quill and parchment, and quickly scrawled out a brief message—six words, nothing more. Short and to the point—enough to surely provide some measure of help, and hopefully enough of it to survive.

She was fortunate to finish at that point, because Rustleif tromped in just as she'd finished sealing the message into a tight scroll. "Oh, thank Tava," she sighed out in relief when she saw him. "Rustleif, I need you to take this to Frorkmar at the White Hall. Tell him he's to deliver it to High King Varulf _right now_."

Frorkmar Banner-Torn was in charge of the Stormcloak forces in the Pale. With the Civil War now ended, his military role had been largely diminished, but he was still close enough to the High King that he was the best person in the city to deliver Seren's message.

Rustleif, meanwhile, looked bewildered, and Seren couldn't blame him. Here she was, standing in her nightclothes with a baby still hanging from her breast, looking frightened out of her wits for no apparent reason.

But there was no time to explain reason— _time_ was something Dawnstar did not have to spare. "Just do it!" she nearly shouted at him, thrusting the scroll into his dingy hands. "Please! This needs to reach the High King _now!_ "

Rustleif took a step backward at this abnormal behavior, and quickly held up his hands in placation. "All right, all right!" he said, alarmed, and ducked out of the house as quickly as he'd come in.

Seren suddenly felt overwhelmed by the outburst, and slumped into a chair while Makela continued to happily guzzle. The Redguard felt exhausted—but not exhausted enough to drive all else from her mind. She had played her part—but she sensed somehow that the troubles were just beginning.

She glanced down at Makela, and smiled down at her. "It's okay, little warrior," she whispered at her daughter. "I'll take care of you."

 _I'll take care of all of us_ , she thought, as bravely as she could muster, _of this entire town if I have to_.

 _I_ have _to_.

* * *

Rustleif made for the Jarl's longhouse at a steady clip, still flustered about how his wife had just acted. Seren was scared of something, that much was clear to him—but about what?

His mind wandered to the ship he'd seen in the sea, and he pondered if perhaps that had been what spooked her so. She had mentioned something about a ship in that story she'd told him this morning, about the Day of Shame. But just as quickly, the more sensible part of his mind had squashed that train of thought under its heel. Ships couldn't last a thousand years at sea, to say nothing of actually sailing on them! The seawater and wind would rot the timber, and erode the rest. _Nothing_ would be left behind after a thousand years on the open ocean.

 _That's all it was_ , he decided— _mind was playing tricks on me_.

But even so, Rustleif had been married to Seren long enough that she wouldn't simply let this go. Besides, the longhouse was only a few paces away; turning back now would be a waste of time—time that he needed to use to get back to forging Skald's longsword. He might as well see her request through—if only just to humor her at the end of the day.

He strode into the Great Hall, ignoring the grumblings from Skald's servant Bulfrek, no doubt having to do with him tromping snow on his freshly washed floor _again_. Rustleif darted down a door on the left, which he recalled from memory to have served as Dawnstar's "war room" for the better part of the last three years.

The man beneath the armored bear pelt was its only other occupant, and he looked rather put out. Not having another war to fight at present had obviously bored Frorkmar Banner-Torn; the Stormcloak commander nearly leapt out of his seat when he saw Rustleif, the mere town blacksmith, come into his haunt with what he obviously perceived as a Stormcloak courier's sense of urgency.

"Rustleif! What can I do for you, friend?" Having forged most of the swords that the Stormcloaks had supplied to their fighters in the pale, Rustleif's name was a familiar one to them—even if the blacksmith had never taken any particular side in the civil war.

He thrust Seren's scroll in Frorkmar's direction. "My wife wants this delivered to the High King immediately."

Frorkmar frowned. "Your wife? What does she want to say to the Harbinger? Surely she could come to Windhelm and speak to him personally. He's taken to holding court there since that Brunwulf fellow took over from Ulfric."

Rustleif shrugged. "I wasn't in any position to ask," he replied. "Seren was very insistent this letter found its way into Varulf's hands, and who am I to argue with my own wife?"

Frorkmar, to Rustleif's knowledge, was not a married man—but the Stormcloak's nod of understanding eventually answered that question for him. "I'll make sure Captain Jod sends out a courier immediately," he said.

Rustleif thanked him, shook his hand, and left the White Hall as soon as he had come.

As Rustleif crossed the edge of the bay back to his house, though, a sudden noise made him pause in his step. It had only been for a moment, and as quickly as it had registered, the blacksmith could only hear the whisper of the wind once again, slicing over the water's surface like millions of invisible blades.

Perhaps his ears were beginning to play tricks on him too, Rustleif decided as he resumed his course for the forge, and the formless sliver of steel that would soon be Skald's sword.

But for just that one single moment—he had sworn that he'd heard someone singing.

* * *

Meanwhile, Guthrum's situation had yet to improve. His time inside the damp, salty-smelling cells under the Dawnstar barracks had not helped to cure his inexplicable cough.

At first, he wondered if that punch he'd suffered at the hands of his guard had had anything to do with this cough. The sizable bruise on his torso did not hurt his breathing so much, but he was still coughing—and worse still, what had started off as a simple, wheezing cough had now turned into a cacophonous hacking noise that echoed off the mossy stone walls of the jail—and irked the guards to no end.

"Shut up in there!" yelled the Stormcloak opposite his cell for the third time—or had it been the fourth time? Guthrum had lost track of time completely; he had no idea how long he had been suffering in here. To him, this day was no longer being measured in hours, minutes, or seconds—but in breathes, hacks, and coughs.

And Guthrum had tried everything to stop it—but every attempt he'd made only seemed to make his situation worse. He'd tried taking a nap, hoping some rest would help with his ailment. Not only had the cough remained, but Guthrum could hardly move his body upon waking up. Even getting out of his bedroll took every last bit of energy he had—it felt as if he'd been sucked dry by a vampire. On top of that, he'd been starting to shiver, even though the guards repeatedly told him to room was as protected from the outside air of Dawnstar as it had always been. But Guthrum did not believe them, and so retreated further into his bedroll. All he wanted to do was just lay there.

All he wanted to _think_ about was just laying there.

But as time went on, Guthrum still continued to worsen. The guards kept their distance, in spite of his moans and cries for help; perhaps they feared catching whatever he already had. Guthrum couldn't blame them—though he was grateful for the water they carefully provided him. It was brackish, and tasted like it had been pulled right from the shoreline, but it did its part to soften the searing dryness the cough had left in his mouth.

As the guards continued to rotate their posts, Guthrum could still hear snippets of conversation among the shoulders to infer what time it might be. He surmised it was getting close to sunset, now; he'd been hearing talk of dinner from the newest man on shift. This soldier had brought an extra plate of food along with Guthrum's water not long ago; it was little more than hardtack and some overripe fruit, but Guthrum would eat anything at this point if it gave him the energy to even stand up on his own power. His muscles were beginning to ache, now, and putting any weight on his body felt excruciatingly difficult. Every inch of the sailor felt like it was throbbing with pain, and it was so intense that Guthrum's eyes soon began to water, and had not stopped since.

They'd given him a bucket to relieve himself, but he could no longer do this without assistance from one of the guards, so weak was his body. He'd lost most of his control over bodily function by now; his clothes and bedroll were stained, reeking of his own sweat and waste. Sometimes Guthrum wouldn't even bother calling out to the guards to help him relieve himself; he'd just go where he was laying, too sick to care about being ashamed. His cries were feeble enough that none of them would probably hear, anyway.

As this next guard turned to make way for his replacement, Guthrum's hand slowly moved to scratch one of the wooden beams that supported his door with a shaving off the stone wall, barely larger than his own fingernail, that lined one side of his cell. One scratch, for each time the guard changed places—one scratch for every hour.

There were ten scratches on that wooden beam.

Guthrum did his best to leave his mark tonight, but the shaving was beginning to slip. This was nothing new; somewhere around the sixth or seventh scratch, his fingers had started to drop the sliver of stone on a regular basis. The sickly sailor had practically shredded the fingers on his hand through repeated attempts to pick it up, and his palms were caked with his own clotted blood.

He was halfway through etching mark number eleven when something on the back of his hand caught his eye. It was small, and a passerby might not have thought twice about it. A patch of ruddy red had appeared on the skin, grainy and densely clustered, almost like freckles. But Guthrum had never borne any freckles on his skin, not even in his childhood. This looked more like some kind of rash, though it didn't itch him one bit, which was a relief.

And yet …

Guthrum's fumbling fingers carefully rolled up his sleeve, and he felt his heart quicken as he beheld more of the grainy rash, spreading up his arm and past his elbow. This was deeply vexing, and Guthrum made for his cell door as quickly as his body would allow, intending to get the guard's attention so as to get his opinion.

He didn't get that far.

At around the third step towards the door, he felt a prickling sensation somewhere in his spine, and all at once every bit of strength that Guthrum had left to his name abandoned him. Like ripples in a still lake, the sensation radiated outward from his body, causing him to convulse. His stomach shifted violently, and the aging Nord expelled the remnants of his dinner all over the floor, startling the jailer. But that wasn't all that came with it. Rivulets of crimson liquid mixed in with the steaming, half-digested stew, and it was a long time before the frail sailor realized _it was his own blood_.

 _He'd vomited his own blood_.

Even as he stared in horror at the rapidly reddening mess, he felt his eyes begin to turn red. Guthrum did not know it, but the force with which he'd thrown up had burst the blood vessels in his face. His eyes and nose were leaking blood like sieves, and the lips of his mouth were dark crimson.

To the jailer, he must have looked as though he'd stuck his face in a fresh kill.

Guthrum barely heard the guard roaring for a medic to _get down here on the double_ —his eyes felt like they were about to burst from their sockets. The redness was beginning to turn to black, and he could no longer stand up. He pitched onto his side, feeling the continued convulsions ravage his body like a dirty sponge being wrung out. Blood continued to pool around his shivering body as his vision began to go.

And through it all, Guthrum—even as his body began to thrash about, scattering and smearing blood, digested food, and human waste everywhere, no longer able to fight back against the inevitable—was _still coughing_.

* * *

Next door at the Windpeak Inn, Captain Wayfinder and Ravam were halfway through their latest round of mead. Ravam, though he insisted on not keeping score, had imbibed a considerably less amount that what his captain had; the Dunmer preferred the sujamma of his homeland to a pint of the unofficial brew of Skyrim.

"What do you reckon, Captain?" he asked Wayfinder. Despite the flushed look on his face, Wayfinder had been through enough drinking contests in his younger years that he could still hear what his shipmate was saying—even with the indistinct chatter and music that filled the tavern. But that didn't mean he _completely_ understood Ravam.

"What do you reckon?" Ravam said again, a little more clearly. "Bit of shore leave in Solstheim after this delivery? I've heard word from some of my friends in Windhelm that Raven Rock's opened up its doors again. The mines were opened back up, and the port's beginning to boom again."

Wayfinder listened with a vacant look on his face that Ravam suspected had little to do with alcohol, even before he turned around to see who or what he was looking at. Sure enough, Karita the bard was strumming at a lyre barely ten paces from their table near the doorway. Several other men were eyeing her rather more than ought to be considered proper; Ravam did not need to be near them to know they were either more drunk than Wayfinder, less adept at holding their liquor—or, more than likely, both.

The dark elf scoffed as he turned back to his distracted captain; the Dunmer had seen less clothes on more attractive women, but Morrowind was a long way away—and a long way gone from what it once was. And even he had to admit that Karita's clothing hugged her skin enough to leave very little to the imagination.

"You all right?" he asked the captain, desperate for any line of conversation.

Wayfinder, thankfully, wasn't absorbed enough in the sights or sounds of Karita that he was completely deaf to Ravam. "Oh—yeah," he grunted, before he apparently realized who he was talking to. "What's it to you?" he added, his tone more brusque than before.

"You've been quiet all day," Ravam noted—and it wasn't just because of the mead or the musician behind them, he knew. Ravam had been tactful enough not to say anything, but after watching Guthrum get hauled off to the barracks for the day, Wayfinder had barely said a single word. He'd gone back to his barrel, where his charts still rested, buried his face inside them, and had hardly moved since. Only when the Dunmer had offered to pick up his tab at the Windpeak Inn tonight had Wayfinder been motivated to leave his ship.

A woman inside the tavern began singing a song—a very beautiful one, Ravam might have thought, if he was paying any more attention to care. "Is it about Guthrum?" he asked.

Some of the ruddiness drained from Wayfinder's face at the mention of the name. "Aye," he eventually said. "Though I'm not surprised you aren't drinking to forget about it, either. He punched you, after all."

Ravam snorted. "I don't mind that," he said. "I've had me fair share of scuffles before I came aboard the _Sea Squall_. And I've heard tell some people in Windhelm get married after beating each other to a pulp in the tavern.

"No," he said, crossing his arms. "I'm not worried Guthrum punched me. I'm more worried about why he punched me." Upon Wayfinder's frown, he added, "These tall tales of his aren't good for morale, Captain. We're already nearing rock bottom as it is, being stuck here in Dawnstar doing this one measly route to Winterhold."

"I'm still the Captain of the ship," Wayfinder said, speaking as authoritatively as the mead would allow—which was to say, rather less than he would have liked. "I hate that I had to do it, but I needed to make an example of him."

"And I'd say he's learned his lesson by now," Ravam said. "We'll pick him up from the cells before we turn in for the night, eh? It's not like we've had to do this with him before." That was true; Guthrum, while his superstitions tended to grate at the last of the crew's nerves, had never come to blows about his beliefs with anyone before today.

Wayfinder considered this for a very long while as the unknown voice continued to sing—long enough that Ravam thought he might be busy ogling Karita again. He wondered if the shapely bard was the one behind the rather lovely song—Azura only knew Karita was probably the only one in this entire town who could carry a tune in a bucket.

Finally, Wayfinder gave a hesitant nod. "Aye," he grunted. "One last round, and we'll pay him a visit." He stood up to signal the bartender for more mead. At the same time, he raised his tankard to his lips, draining the last of his drink.

What happened next, Ravam Verethi could never have seen coming.

Wayfinder suddenly pitched forward with a gurgling moan. The tankard fell from his fingers and clattered onto the stone floor as the captain of the Sea Squall clutched his stomach, apparently in awful discomfort. Exactly what was discomforting him so became apparent almost immediately.

Ravam had no time to react. As the Dunmer moved to aid his shipmate, Wayfinder's body shuddered violently—and threw up just as abruptly, emptying his stomach of every drop of mead and bit of food he'd had over the past hour here. Half of the brownish-yellow mess ended up on a thoroughly unprepared Ravam, while the rest pooled at the captain's feet in semi-solid chunks as he let loose with a lengthy series of hacking coughs.

There was total silence at the inn. The nauseating spectacle had held everyone's attention—even the song that Ravam had been hearing had stopped. "Is he okay?" someone asked.

Fortunately, Ravam was saved from having to find out when he saw Wayfinder gingerly get to his feet. "Aye, I'm fine, I'm fine," he mumbled. "Must've been some bad meat, was all. Bad mead. Don't know."

He had to haul himself up with one hand on the edge of the table to stand up properly—and that concerned Ravam. Leif Wayfinder wasn't a strong lad, but he was a _young_ lad, and therefore still more fit than most merchant captains had a right to be. Something was clearly bothering him, that much was clear—and it wasn't something he'd eaten.

He offered an arm to Wayfinder. The captain accepted, and Ravam bore him away rather awkwardly across the Windpeak Inn. Business was slowly starting to resume, and the patrons gradually resumed their conversation.

Karita, however, remained distinctly uneasy as she watched the two sailors take their leave. "Don't … worry," Wayfinder reassured them, although halfheartedly. "I'm not drunk, and I'm not ill. Just had some bad food."

His eyes alighted on Karita. "You're … lovely singer," he mumbled, clearly out of it. "Next time … here, I'll … pay … any song you want. Every song. Beautiful voice. Voice of Mara herself."

Karita flushed pink, but still frowned. "I'm glad you think so," she said, "but I wasn't the one who was singing. In fact, I don't think anyone in the inn was singing in all the time you two were here."

If he hadn't been otherwise occupied, Ravam might have been more confused by this unexpected news. Nevertheless, the ungainly weight on his shoulder demanded more attention, and he only had time to spare a quick apology at the young maiden before escorting Wayfinder out of the inn.

The moment the door closed behind them, Wayfinder collapsed on the stairs, and wasted no time in heaving another volley of dark sludge from his mouth. It was too dark out to make out an exact color, even through the torchlight.

"Ugh," moaned Wayfinder as he stumbled to his feet. Luckily, it looked as though his second round of vomiting had brought him to most of his senses—Ravam was too bewildered at what he had just witnessed to wonder why this was—and he began speaking more coherently from here on out.

"I guess our visit with Guthrum will have to wait for a time," Wayfinder murmured as he stood back up on wobbly legs. "I'm not feeling so good. Get me back to the _Sea Squall_. I'll turn in early for the night."

He did look very ashen, even in the dim glow of the torchlight, and Ravam nodded his agreement. "I'll see if I can't rouse old Frida at the Mortar and Pestle," he suggested. "Maybe she's got a cure for whatever's ailing you."

"A-aye," coughed Wayfinder, and the two slowly made their way along the shoreline, still half swallowed up by fog.

They were just about to pass Quicksilver Mine when Ravam heard it: a soft, sweet noise that carried on the wind, and might not otherwise have been registered by their ears. To any other person, it might have instilled a sense of calm, of a blissful peace with the turbulent world around them.

But to Ravam and Wayfinder, that song had a completely different meaning—for they had heard it barely minutes ago, inside the Windpeak Inn. The Dunmer was confounded; he had heard Karita say only just now that the song had not been hers to sing, nor anyone else's in the tavern! That could only mean it had come from …

Ravam felt the presence before he saw it. Every last hair on his neck was standing on end, and chills raced down his spine with every passing second that the wordless song reached his ears. Slowly, he listened on the wind, using every bit of nautical know-how at his disposal to try and pinpoint the source of the song—

 _There—atop_ Irgnir's house. Ravam's ears weren't nearly that good to have located the source of the song—as it turned out, he didn't even need them. But none of this occurred to the Dunmer as his eyes took in the faint sliver of white perched atop the thatched roof.

It was fluttering in the wind—almost as though it was wearing a …

Ravam's mouth suddenly felt very dry. _No … it can't be …_

Suddenly, an urgent tugging on his shoulder from Wayfinder distracted him. The Captain's eyes were wide open, fixed to a point somewhere off to the northwest. Ravam turned to follow his eyes—and again, he felt no need. He could see what had so captivated Wayfinder's attention.

The torchlight from Fruki's house was just enough to illuminate a widening gap in the fog—at long last, it was receding, dispelled as if by some invisible hand of the gods had drawn back a curtain.

Behind that curtain was a massive dark ship, easily ten times larger than the Sea Squall—and less than a hundred fathoms away. There was no sign of torchlight, or light of any kind within the vessel, and no apparent sign of life. Even from this distance, Ravam felt a chill as he looked at the ship; its sails had been reefed to protect the mast from the strong winds that howled through the Sea of Ghosts, but even from here, he could not see any sign of damage from the freezing winds and water of the far north.

The more sensible half of the Dunmer immediately made another realization as the ship slowly drew closer: the ship was too large to enter the bay; the ship would have to make berth on the shoals that separated it from the ocean beyond. This, however, did not concern the rest of him, and it certainly did not concern Wayfinder. Both men were staring wild-eyed at the sight, their faces draining of all color as the truth of the sights they'd both seen slowly began to sink in.

They whirled around on each other at the same time, unable to speak more than a few words. "Guthrum—" Wayfinder could only bring himself to speak to Ravam.

"—he wasn't lying—" was all the Dunmer could say in reply. They stood there, gobsmacked, for several moments longer as they realized what was happening.

Then, as one, they bolted for the town barracks.

Ravam got there first, even while taking his time waiting for Wayfinder to catch up; the captain was running much more slowly than he ought to be, and he was coughing every few steps he took. Perhaps his episode in the tavern had been more debilitating than he'd let on, Ravam thought.

But Wayfinder caught up to him without any further trouble, and the two advanced towards the barracks as one—

—only to be rebuffed by the guard at the door. "What are you doing here?" barked the soldier, sword in hand, its polished blade glinting in the flickering light of the sconce nearby.

Wayfinder tried to answer as best he could between panting breaths. "We—wanted—to see—Guthrum—"

The guard relaxed, and sheathed his blade, but the steely tone in his voice did not disappear. "Guthrum's dead," he said shortly.

Ravam gawked in shock, feeling as if a dull blow had just been delivered to his stomach. "W-what?" he finally spluttered. "How? When?"

"It was barely an hour ago," said the guard. "Poor sod must have taken ill—he was coughing up a storm the whole time he was here. Kept on moaning and complaining, stunk to high heaven. We did what we could, but in the end it wasn't enough. You don't want to go in there," he added warningly, for Ravam and Wayfinder had tried to head inside. "Your sailor friend didn't go quietly. Blood everywhere. He was leaking the stuff from just about every hole in his body—eyes, nose, mouth, everywhere." He gave a rare shiver.

Ravam still could not think straight—so much had happened in so little time. Strange specters, a ship from out of nowhere, and now one of their own shipmates dead—of an illness he'd shown no sign of having before today?!

"You want to be more careful about the cargo you handle in the future," the guard warned them. "Never know what kind of nasty things might be lurking in there—things what make the Rattles look like a head cold.

"We've committed what's left of your shipmate to Arkay," he said to the two men, and Ravam felt a stab of dismay at the words _what's left_ —wondering just what had happened to Guthrum to make him suffer this fate. "All we've left to do is cremate the remains. Don't want to leave anything to chance here."

He flipped a jaunty salute to the sailors as he headed inside, then pointed at Wayfinder. "And do something about that rash while you're on your way back to your ship," he suggested. "Like try not to scratch it so much."

"Rash?"

But Ravam's eyes had already drifted downward to his captain's hands, illuminated for a split second by the bright light inside the barracks. He saw the bare skin, and the tiny spots of scarlet that peppered it, and _knew_.

 _Azura, preserve us_ , he thought helplessly.

Slowly, as if time itself had wound down to a crawl, he turned to Wayfinder. It was almost impossible to speak due to the dryness of his throat, and his terror rose in his throat to choke him—or was that really his terror, he wondered, instead of—

"I know what killed Guthrum," he managed to say. His voice was flat, almost devoid of emotion. And judging from the horrified look on Wayfinder's face, he knew the same thing.

"What do we do?" Leif Wayfinder had never sounded more scared in all the time Ravam had sailed under him—sailed under him, and despised him for being handed the captaincy of an entire ship on a silver platter. But there was no point arguing about that anymore. There was no point arguing about anything anymore.

For Ravam was very aware that if Wayfinder had taken ill, then so had he; it was only a matter of time before the first of the symptoms showed up. They'd both been very close to Guthrum during their altercation this morning—very, _very_ close. Worse still, out of all the guards that constantly patrolled the city, a large number of them ought to have passed through the barracks where they'd taken the old Nord—maybe even the jail where he was being kept.

And some of those guards had been examining his body _at this very moment_.

The Dunmer knew their options were limited. As far as they were concerned, Dawnstar was not one of them. They could no longer stay here. But there was no guarantee they would be welcome anywhere else in Skyrim—or if anywhere else in Skyrim, or even all of Tamriel, could be safe enough for them anymore.

Or safe enough _from_ them.

There was only one decision left to make—and though the mere thought of it pained Ravam, he knew that anything else they did would mean a loss of life on an unthinkable scale. And so, with a resigned sigh, he made his decision.

"We cut and run, Captain," Ravam said. "Make our way north, away from Dawnstar. We get the hell out of this town … and we don't ever look back."

What little color remained in Wayfinder's face drained away for good as he realized what Ravam was suggesting. He said nothing, nor did he give any indication of agreement or disagreement. The only thing he did was turn on his heel, and go back the way he came—straight back to the _Sea Squall_.

Ravam followed behind him, taking a good long look at Dawnstar. He would never be seeing it again, not from so far up close. But he hoped that it would be the last thing he _did_ see, before all was lost to his sight.

They walked up the gangplank, and while Ravam hurled off the length of wood, casting it to the shoreline, Wayfinder used his sword to sever the anchor that kept the Sea Squall within the bay. The timber of the boat shuddered as the heavy weight sank into the bay with hardly a splash.

There would be no need for sails for this voyage, both men knew, and so Ravam took up position at the tiller—a position, he noted sadly, had once been Guthrum's—expertly guiding their merchant ship through the bay, free of her anchor. Neither of them spared either Dawnstar or the approaching vessel a second glance until the _Sea Squall_ had sailed free of the shoals a half-hour later, and skimmed into open ocean.

For the last time, the _Sea Squall_ sailed away from Dawnstar, unnoticed and unmissed by anyone—least of all the dark ship that bore down upon the unsuspecting town.

* * *

Now free of the dangerous rocks, Ravam turned to Wayfinder. "Orders … Captain?" he reported with a wry smile and a brief salute, though a very halfhearted one.

The Dunmer was already beginning to feel the first of the symptoms; his body was weak and faint, and his skin perspired even in the freezing cold. Ravam knew that he wouldn't be fit to man the rudder for much longer. Still, for the first time in what felt like ages, he felt the word _Captain_ flow off his tongue in a way that, finally, he was proud to have known the man alongside him, no matter how much they might have disagreed in the past.

Wayfinder, meanwhile, did not respond for a long time. Ravam would have given anything to know what was going through the young sailor's head—not that he would have had time to ruminate on it for very long.

Finally, Leif Wayfinder, Captain of the _Sea Squall,_ spoke. "Set course … due north," he said quietly. "Dead slow ahead."

Ravam nodded. "Dead slow ahead … sir," he responded, and positioned the tiller accordingly.

As he did so, he began to cough.

* * *

Meanwhile, Seren stood beside the front door of her house as if keeping vigil there, her heart still thudding in her breast. Rustleif and Makela were already in bed, and so had remained blissfully oblivious to what she'd been up to. But there would be no rest for Seren tonight—perhaps not for a very long time.

For the Redguard had chosen this moment to peek through the crack in the door, and she had clearly seen the outline of the ship that still sailed its way for this sleepy town, in the dying hours of the day. Seren had not screamed or fainted at the site—she was a Redguard, a wife, and a mother of a warrior child. She would not scream or lose her head because of this, no matter how pressing the temptation might be—she would not betray her fear to her husband or her daughter. But what fear it was, to have to saddle it alone, that her family need not bear it—and how pressing a temptation it was, to let that fear consume her as it had almost done earlier today!

Now, however, Seren knew there was no point in being fearful. She'd done all she could to help out for now. Her part had been played. Whether or not her worst fears would be unfounded remained to be seen. All that was left to do was pray to the gods—of both Skyrim and Hammerfell—and _hope_.

The Redguard clasped her hands, and bowed her head. "Tu'whacca, God of the Far Shores," she whispered—the first words of a traditional prayer she'd learned in her childhood. "I ask for your blessing and guidance … "

* * *


	3. II

II

_21_ _st_ _of Rain's Hand, 4E 204_

Windhelm was not a city known for its colors.

The forests of Falkreath had their greens, the plains of Whiterun had their golden-browns, and the waters below Solitude had their sparkling blues. But in the eternal winter that shrouded the oldest city in Skyrim, any trace of green and brown it had once possessed was buried under snowdrifts that were older by far. The slice of the River Yorgrim that bordered its southern wall was more gray than it was blue, and frequently iced over, requiring cracking almost on a daily basis so that any ships that made berth here wouldn't be leaving the docks with a huge gash in their keels from any errant ice.

It was a bleak city in a part of the world that faced a bleak future—yet High King Varulf Blackmane, Harbinger of the Companions, Stormblade to the late Ulfric Stormcloak, would never have preferred this city any other way.

Windhelm was not _his_ city; though Varulf was one of the most powerful men in the land, he was not so arrogant to claim that he had the right to rule over Windhelm as he now ruled over Skyrim—this was Ysgramor's city, after all, as it always would be. Nor was he foolish enough to believe that he was as powerful as his list of titles suggested. Well aware was he that at the heart of the matter, Varulf was only one man trying to follow in the footsteps of other, greater Men. True, debate could be made that Ysgramor, who had raised this city to watch over the tomb of his dead son Yngol—and the Dragonborn, who had played a major role in the chain of events that had led him here—were more than just mortal Men.

The same, however, could not be said for Ulfric. He'd been much more of a man in death than Varulf knew he would ever be in life—but a man he still remained. Varulf had had no trouble with accepting this; he would always look up to his former Jarl, no matter what he had done in his lifetime. Still, his had been the hardest passing to bear, and Varulf had had to bear a great deal of them in his lifetime. Worse still, he remained unsure if Ulfric's death had been necessary at all. He had revealed the Jarl's terrible secret to the whole Moot that fateful day, before setting in motion the events that had led to this point.

It was hard to believe that those events inside the Temple of the Divines had happened only a year ago. Yet in that single year, the landscape of Skyrim had changed significantly. Gone were the Stormcloaks of old, the dissidents that had rallied under Jarl Ulfric against the Empire of Tamriel, and marched on Solitude to overthrow them, reclaiming their independence at long last. Gone was the Moot where Varulf had been forced to bare his battle-brother's soul to every Jarl present—and many other things besides—before killing him in battle. Exactly how Varulf had killed him was a mystery to most of Skyrim; only the Jarls and a few others knew what had happened inside that castle, and none of them were keen to repeat the events. Varulf would only say afterwards that he wished the battle had been more glorious.

Glory or no glory, however, with the loss of their leader, the Stormcloaks had gone with it; Galmar Stone-Fist, Ulfric's former right-hand man, had renounced the Harbinger that day, and a large number of freedom fighters had gone with him. With nothing left to fight for, they had returned to their homes and families, attempting to do their best to return to the lives they had known before this bloody war, no doubt grumbling all the while about what could have been under Ulfric. Only the Companions and a handful of Stormcloaks had remained loyal to Varulf—and even then, it was for a given value of "loyal"; if it hadn't been for the Harbinger's rather lofty vow after what he had done in the Moot, and the unanimous support of the other eight Jarls, he might well have had a revolt on his hands.

Varulf sighed, ruffling the bushy, chest-length beard that had earned him his name. He wished he could go back to Jorrvaskr, drinking and singing the night away with Aela, Vilkas, Farkas, … all of his shield-brothers and -sisters. It had been a more simple time—a more _glorious_ time. Those times, however, had long since passed. No longer was he a traditional warrior in search of personal glory, but a traditional king in search of glory for all of Skyrim.

At least, he thought with another sigh, that was what he _hoped_ he could become.

At length, Varulf rose from the long oaken table where he had been breaking fast, bringing himself to his full, six-foot-plus height and rubbing his permanently bloodshot eyes with an armored fist. His horned helm, once possessed by the same Yngol that Ysgramor's spirit still watched over, was replaced upon his head of long black hair. Varulf winced as he felt the pitted metal start rubbing against the healing wound on his head—one of a large number of testaments he still carried from his battle with Ulfric.

"Morning court's due to start soon," remarked Brunwulf from alongside him. "You think you can handle the day's petitions on your own, friend? I'm due to meet with Malthyr in an hour about the renovations to the Gray Quarter. And Captain Lonely-Gale's already gone done to the docks to set up a meeting with the Argonian workers there."

Varulf grunted. "Petitions I can handle," he said shortly. "The people making the petitions … that's another story."

In many ways, Jarl Brunwulf Free-Winter was the opposite of both Varulf and his predecessor. He had made no bones about his views on Ulfric being a 'narrow-minded fool', an assertion that had earned him no short supply of ire from some people in Windhelm, Galmar and Rolff Stone-Fist among them. The old soldier, however, had braved the tide of discontent after taking charge of the day-to-day affairs in Windhelm, and Varulf had found in him a kindred spirit of sorts, even though Brunwulf's opinion of the Stormcloaks had been far less than glowing. He too, after all, was a man who'd found himself in a position of political power against the will of the majority, yet who wanted to prove to be an able ruler regardless of the dark mutters and ill wishes that came from his subjects.

As for Varulf, he'd known only a handful of people that he trusted on principle that also weren't Nords. Where Ulfric and Galmar had been distrustful of other races to the point of paranoia, however, Varulf had had no quarrel with the beast-races and the Dunmer of Windhelm. Instead, he'd elected to find a more specific scapegoat in the Thalmor, along with any high elves he believed sympathized with the supremacist regime of the Aldmeri Dominion. Varulf had made it a goal to stamp out the taint of the Thalmor wherever he went—not simply for what they had done to the people of Skyrim, but for what they had done to Ulfric.

But that would come later. Varulf hadn't journeyed to Windhelm out of simple patriotic fervor. He wanted to learn what it was like to be able to hold power over people, and exercise it accordingly. In his mind, a moderate like the Jarl was as good a teacher to that end as he could hope for. Varulf liked to think he'd learned a great deal from him in the six months since coming to this city.

"The people of Skyrim can think what they want of you," Brunwulf told him as Varulf took a seat in the Jarl's stone-carved throne—one of only a handful of people who had that distinction. "But as long as you think of Skyrim in return, then they will come to see you as the High King they deserve."

The Harbinger privately admitted that such a prospect was easier said than done.

Brunwulf was just about to take his leave of the keep when the door burst open with a BANG. The man behind it nearly bowled him over as he sped in, treading snow on the bare stone floor. Varulf recognized the bearskin cowl of a Stormcloak officer; Galmar had offered him the same armor when he'd reached the standing of Stormblade, but he'd turned it down in favor of the ancient steel armor he'd worn ever since his first days as a whelp in Jorrvaskr.

As the officer drew closer, he soon recognized the man as Frorkmar Banner-Torn. The two had met once before in the Pale, shortly before Varulf had helped to claim Fort Dunstad for the Stormcloak forces. Varulf had never been to Dawnstar, but had heard tell the residents there were critical of the Jarl, Skald, who himself had been fiercely loyal to Ulfric—which no doubt meant that the entire town had no idea which side to take anymore.

Jorleif, still a steward of the keep even after the passing of his master, stepped forward and cleared his throat. "Hail, Frorkmar!" he called in a voice that, while enthusiastic, was noticeably more clipped than Varulf remembered.

Like many of the former Jarl's confidantes in the Palace of the Kings, Jorleif had found his duties diminished of late after Brunwulf had appointed Captain Lonely-Gale as _his_ steward; Varulf, however, in the hopes of appeasing the people of Windhelm, had made very little changes in staff, relegating almost all of Ulfric's assistants to his own staff. He'd mellowed out since Varulf had first claimed the Jagged Crown; evidently, however, Jorleif still harbored a trace of resentment for the Nord he now served.

"Have you come to make court?" he now inquired of Frorkmar, who held up a hand to indicate he needed a moment. He sounded quite out of breath, almost as if he'd been running a great distance.

Then Varulf noticed the crumpled parchment Frorkmar was holding.

"Was sent … to deliver this," panted the officer, brandishing the object in his direction. "Rustleif … Dawnstar … wife … High King's eyes only … "

Varulf had no idea who this Rustleif was, but he assumed he must be a resident of Dawnstar. As to the message he'd presumably entrusted to Frorkmar, Varulf thought that for a man he knew nothing about to send such a confidential message, and in such a quick fashion, the news must be bad.

Thinking of remnants of the Imperial Legion, perhaps mounting for a retaliatory strike, Varulf slit open the letter with no small measure of urgency—but was rather nonplussed to find one of the shortest letters he'd ever received:

_The Crimson Ship is in Dawnstar._

Varulf lowered the letter, a confused expression working its way across his brow. He turned over the slip of parchment, wondering if there might have been more to the strange contents of the letter, but there was nothing. This only made him more confused; the whole thing read almost like some form of coded message.

So he racked his brains for an answer. The Crimson Ship … where had he heard of that before? Varulf hadn't heard very many stories about ships of any kind in his time; the legends that surrounded the vessels of the original Five Hundred Companions that had sailed from Atmora to Skyrim were some of the few exceptions. Neither had he been much for books and letters, either, which was another thing he'd had to learn on the fly recently; Jorrvaskr was not the College of Winterhold—it offered little to sate either interest for very long.

He needed an outside opinion—and under the circumstances, only one person in Windhelm could qualify.

Varulf pointed at a guard. "Send for Wuunferth immediately," he ordered. "There are some questions I need to ask him. I don't care what he's doing at this hour; I want him here _now!_ "

The Stormcloak soldier saluted, and disappeared into an adjoining hallway.

Wuunferth the Unliving was the court wizard of the keep, and one of the few remaining tenants of the palace who'd served with Ulfric. He and Varulf had worked alongside one another a year previously in order to bring a serial killer to justice. The Harbinger had little need of a court wizard's services, and so had given his blessing to stay with Brunwulf if he so desired; though Wuunferth was a recognized member of the College of Winterhold, Varulf already counted one of _those_ in his inner circle, too.

 _Now if only he could bother to keep in touch with me more often_ , he thought irritably.

Jorleif leaned inward. "What was in that letter?" he asked in an undertone, not even trying to keep the curiosity out of his voice. "I warrant it's some ill news indeed, if you're wanting to rouse the Unliving at a time like this."

"I hope we'll know soon enough," Varulf murmured.

The guard reappeared a minute later, followed by an old man in a faded blue robe, muttering darkly under his breath. "If this is another request for a magic show … " the Nord was heard to grumble, before the expectant stare of Varulf caught his attention.

"And what's all this, then, calling an old man up from his bed in the wee hours of the morning?" old Wuunferth sighed, ruffling the mustache above his beard—long enough and gray enough to rival any of those monks of High Hrothgar. Though his cantankerous attitude had not wavered in the slightest, there was still a noticeable change in his tone of voice. He certainly didn't show it on his worst of days, but Wuunferth harbored a degree of respect for the High King that most Nords in Skyrim—let alone in Windhelm—had yet to properly possess.

Varulf handed Frorkmar's letter to the aged Nord. "This was sent to me just now," he explained. "I hoped I could get the benefit of your knowledge on the matter, if you have any."

The old wizard's eyes, still razor-sharp in spite of the cataracts beginning to build up inside them, zoomed over the single line of writing. Wuunferth's wrinkled forehead creased in a frown, and a much longer sigh ruffled his beard.

"I've heard of this, aye," murmured the mage. "I don't fault you for not knowing, milord—I'd be surprised if _any_ of the common folk do anymore, this day and age."

"How do you mean?"

"The Crimson Ship is part of an old Redguard legend," explained Wuunferth. "Before the Alliance Wars in the Second Era, Tamriel was plagued by a disease called the Knahaten Flu. Horrible thing it was, too—one of the deadliest the world had ever seen. Even today, no one's been able to find out what caused it, or how many people died from it. No one's been able to agree on a specific cure, either. The only thing we can agree on is that the Flu wiped out everything it touched: people, cities, cultures and religions … even entire races."

"Races!" Varulf's bloodshot eyes widened—what kind of disease could eradicate an entire civilization?

"Aye." Wuunferth's expression was grim. "Have you heard of the Kothringi of Black Marsh?"

Varulf shook his head.

"Mm. Well, that's how thoroughly the Flu snuffed them out," said the court wizard. "Anyway, it happened that a ship left port from Black Marsh, filled to the crows' nests with sick Kothringi. A whole year they sailed, trying to make berth at every port city they could find—but every city turned them away. Didn't want to be infected themselves … not that it mattered much. After Hammerfell rejected them, they abandoned all hope. They sailed out west to the Abacean, never looked back. The ship was never seen again after that—and neither were the Kothringi."

"But?" Varulf asked, sensing a second part to this tale.

"The people of Hammerfell soon regretted that they sent everyone on board that ship to their death," answered Wuunferth, "and so they declared that day a Day of Shame. No one who calls themselves a proper Redguard leaves their house on that day—they believe the Crimson Ship will come back, you see. That's the legend, at any rate."

"Well, according to this letter, it _has_ come back—and right in the middle of Dawnstar," Varulf said, feeling an uneasy tingling creep up his spine. "When exactly is this 'Day of Shame'?" he asked.

"If I remember the legend right," said the wizard, "it was the twentieth of Rain's Hand."

His face suddenly fell as if it had melted right off his skull. "Yesterday … " he murmured.

The feeling in Varulf's spine increased further; he was beginning to feel alarmed. Dawnstar was a day's journey from here by horse, he knew—meaning this Crimson Ship had made port right on that exact day, the twentieth.

"Jorleif, I need you to go to Candlehearth Hall," he said, thinking as quickly as he was speaking. "Ask the innkeepers there if they've had any couriers from Dawnstar arrive over the past day or so. Come back with their answer the moment you're able."

The steward sped out of the keep.

Varulf dropped his voice now, though few people still remained in the keep to hear it. "Wuunferth," he whispered, "anything more you can tell me on this legend would be invaluable to me right now. But there's one thing I need to know: did it say anything about what the Redguards believed would happen if the Crimson Ship came back?"

The wizard swallowed, wiping his brow. "A-as I recall, the legend never said anything outright," he replied, "but I could presume that if the ship returned … the Knahaten Flu would return with it."

Varulf heard the faint stuttering, and now was more worried than ever; Wuunferth was not one to stutter. "But that all happened a thousand years ago!" he said, agitated. "Surely the ship would have rotted away as time went by, and sunk to the bottom of the sea! Even if it didn't, the survivors who sailed on it must be long dead by now! The Flu would have burned itself out at sea, with no one left to infect."

Wuunferth had no reply to any of this. That scared Varulf most of all: it was a silent confirmation of perhaps the worst possible thing that a wet-behind-the-ears High King could have asked for.

 _The Knahaten Flu has returned_.

He exhaled a long breath to calm himself. This was not an easy task; his mind was already hard at work to figure out how to respond to a calamity on this scale. Obviously, the best choice was to proceed under the impression that this Crimson Ship had indeed resurfaced per the legend, and brought its deadly plague with it. But this would take massive amounts of resources to quell; resources that Skyrim might not have after suffering through this civil war.

Varulf was a patriot, but neither was he hardheaded. He'd learned from experience that simply rushing in heedlessly could prove to be his undoing—unfortunately, one of his shield-brothers had learned that lesson in a more lasting way. Sending in massive amounts of troops, even to assist the sick and dying, could end up causing more harm than good—and if his and Wuunferth's suspicions of the Knahaten Flu were true, then it could possibly end up infecting even more people across the land!

 _So we need a more tempered reaction_ , Varulf thought—an option that will both appease the people and help to calm any sense of panic. But the problem in that option was its availability. Varulf knew he only had one chance to contact him—he did not have the luxury of time for a second try.

In the meantime … "Find Jarl Brunwulf and Captain Lonely-Gale. Bring them back to the keep as soon as humanly possible. I'm convening an emergency session to deal with a potential threat to the people of Skyrim—perhaps even Tamriel—and I'm going to need as much of their input as possible.

"Wuunferth," Varulf said to the wizard. "Inform the city that court is hereby cancelled for the day. I hope it won't be for longer than that. We'll discuss the delegation of _those_ duties as soon as we've established a plan of action."

The palace door creaked open again, revealing a windblown and very out-of-breath Jorleif. Despite his disheveled state, the Nord recovered smartly, clearing his throat and shaking his clothes free of any snow before delivering his report. "We've had no other couriers come in from the Pale this week, milord," he said, "let alone yesterday."

Varulf felt a faint ray of hope—so Windhelm was safe, at least for the time being. That might potentially make it easier to keep any infection restricted to Dawnstar and the immediate area, making it that much easier to deal with.

"Good work. Send messages to Whiterun and Solitude, as well as our garrison in Fort Dunstad. No couriers, they'll be too slow; use messenger birds instead. Inform Jarl Vignar and Jarl Elisif that all roads leading to Dawnstar are to be closed to civilian traffic until further notice. No one comes in, no one goes out, unless they have the permission of the provincial government."

There was a small chorus of mutters at this. Wuunferth made an aside to Varulf. "Milord, am I to presume you are putting Dawnstar under martial law?" he said, a tiny note of disbelief in his voice.

The Harbinger shook his head. "I don't want it to come to that," he replied in an undertone, "not if I can help it."

He pointed at another faceless guard, who promptly saluted. "Have our posts in Winterhold reported any signs of dragon activity?"

"No, milord," the soldier answered him. "Nothing beyond the occasional roosting at Mount Anthor. Sometimes they hear things—like roars and flapping wings. They always say it's the wind, though, because nothing is there. And frankly, milord," she added, "no one wants to find out."

Varulf frowned. "Ask them again, to be sure," he said. "While you're on your way, send for Captain Ralof as well. I have a special mission for him to carry out."

Another salute and a bare minute later, a familiar head of blond hair emerged from the Bloodworks, the barracks for the Windhelm guards. Varulf had known Ralof almost as long as he'd been with the Stormcloaks—which, while it hadn't been a very long time, had involved a great deal of battles where they'd fought the forces of the Empire alongside one another. He was the only person outside of the Companions who Varulf could truly call a shield-brother—which was exactly why he'd personally recommended him to be Brunwulf's military advisor.

"Hail, Varulf!" Ralof's ruddy face had split in a grin as the two embraced one another. "How goes the High Kingship?"

"Not so good, I'm afraid," Varulf said heavily, grabbing a sheaf of parchment from the table, along with ink and quill. "The Pale may be in the grips of a sickness like nothing we've seen in a long time. If we're to have any chance at helping its people, I'm going to need your help."

Ralof heard the seriousness in his compatriot's words, and immediately sobered up. "What do you want me to do?"

Varulf began scrawling a message. "You told me once that you helped the Dragonborn escape from Helgen after it was destroyed by Alduin," he said as he wrote. "That alone says you know him better than most of us in this room."

He sealed the parchment with wax, and handed it to Ralof. "I need you to take this to the College of Winterhold. Tell the scholars there that this letter is to be delivered to their Arch-Mage immediately."

Ralof accepted the letter, though not without some reservation. "Do we even know if he is still there, though? The Dragonborn hasn't been publicly seen in almost a year! You might have been the last to see him at all, those months ago! Everyone who's gone to the College asking about him has been sent back with the same answer—'he isn't here, we don't know where he is, nor are we obligated to keep tabs on him.'" His words sounded so pompous that if he closed his eyes, Varulf thought for a moment he was actually talking to a mage of the College.

"That's exactly what makes me think they know where he is," he replied, "and that even if he isn't now, then he's been visiting Skyrim in secret. A defensive attitude like that is a clear tell of a ruse. I'm counting on you to make them see reason, Ralof. You may well be the one person in the province who can find the Dragonborn right now."

Varulf saw the Stormcloak swallow the lump in his throat. It stung, but it was no less refreshing to see. He knew Ralof understood the yoke his king was laying on his shoulders. But Ralof had always called himself a son of Skyrim; he'd borne worse in his day. And because he was a son of Skyrim, Varulf knew he could bear this one, too.

"Aye," Ralof said, nodding. "I'll find him."

He threw Varulf a salute, and marched out of the keep, message in hand.

The Harbinger spared a brief moment to watch him go; then, once the door had banged shut, he addressed his court wizard once more. "Prepare everything you know on the subject of the Crimson Ship and the Knahaten Flu," he said. "I want everyone in this meeting to be fully aware of what we're facing. We need options, fast."

Wuunferth nodded, and disappeared up the hallway that led to his chambers.

Now alone but for a scattering of guards that had not yet been sent to carry out any of his orders, Varulf returned to the stone throne where Ulfric had once made his seat, and Brunwulf now occupied. He did not sit down, ostensibly out of respect for those two men, but merely stared at the sculpted furniture, brooding.

"How would you have done things?" the Harbinger was heard to mutter, though the guards would never quite agree later on as to whom their High King might have been speaking to.

 _I've done everything I know I'm able to do …_ _but I have no choice but to rely on the Dragonborn for this. I don't know what else to do … I don't even know if it'll be enough, in the face of a foe like this._

 _… Gods, I hope he's here_ , Varulf thought as he took his leave of the great hall, heading up the hallway that led to his chambers.

* * *

_Dawnstar_

The morning light that broke over the Pale was cold, gray, and smacking heavily of impending rain. The townspeople, however, took little notice of this. For the first time in a year, their daily routines had been disrupted—though unlike in those restless nights of endless nightmares, their lack of sleep had been caused by a very real nightmare.

Knahaten Flu! Rustleif had thought. Even now, eight hours after his wife had shaken him awake with one of the most fearful expressions he'd ever seen Seren wear, he still couldn't believe it.

Any prospect of sleep was forgotten from then on out, as Seren proceeded to talk to him about everything she knew about this "Crimson Ship" that had been sighted off the coast of Dawnstar, and the devastating disease its erstwhile inhabitants had carried with it, to be unleashed a thousand years later upon a town that had no defense against it.

It appeared, however, that Seren had decided to do her damnedest to mount one almost overnight.

He'd sat there for the longest time, mouth half open in disbelief at the change that had come over his wife, even as Seren—wrapped in rags that covered every inch of skin with any spare bit of clothing she could spare—proceeded to do the same thing to him. These rags were even laid over the nose and mouth, which made breathing very difficult. What was more, they were dipped in what smelled like lavender, giving off a sharp, The aroma that now emanated from the kitchen, however, was even more overpowering.

"No one's ever agreed on how this Flu spreads," Seren had told him as she laid Makela in her cradle. The baby had been swaddled as warmly and comfortably as circumstances would allow; no sooner had she been replaced in her tiny bed than Seren proceeded to rip up a number of very old clothes into strips.

These she wrapped tightly around the exposed flesh of Rustleif's arms and legs—fingers, toes and all. "Some people believe we can catch it by breathing the air," explained Seren as she did so, "others by touching the infected. I'm trying to be prepared for either case, so you're going to have to put up with it," she scolded as the blacksmith fidgeted under the itchy rags.

There wasn't much else Rustleif could do in the face of that attitude, he thought—and it certainly didn't help that he felt more wrapped up than a draugr. He decided, then, to turn his attention elsewhere to the intense, if pleasant, odor that was spreading throughout the household.

"What's that I'm smelling?" he asked, his Nordic brogue muffled through the cloth, although still intelligible.

"Just your regular chicken broth," replied Seren, as she busied herself with stirring a large pot of brownish-yellow liquid filled with herbs, "and some fragrances to ward away the smells. Madena tells me that this is the only thing we have in town that might help against the Flu. Sorghum doesn't grow in these parts, so good luck making any tea with it. And Madena isn't keen on summoning even a single clannfear to harvest their claws—says Skald would rather die of the Flu than let himself be cured by the aids of a Daedra."

Rustleif's eyes widened. "Skald? He's not infected with this, too, is he?"

"I can't say," Seren said sadly. "I passed by the White Hall on the way to see Madena—she moved into Silus' place after that lunatic disappeared, you know; she was never on good terms with Skald even before Ulfric's death. But Rustleif … the White Hall's been locked. No guards at the door." She swallowed. "No guards in Dawnstar at all."

What?! "No guards whatsoever?" Rustleif nearly roared, before remembering Makela was still sleeping soundly in her cradle. "The town will be in chaos by midday without any guards around! What's Skald thinking?"

"Skald has nothing to do with it." Seren had moved away from her kettle of broth, having been stirring it during their conversation. Rustleif could not see her face, but the tone of her suddenly shaking voice was of utter fright.

"Rustleif, our guards are dying left and right," she said. "The Flu hit them first, and it hit them hard. Madena told me the ones who are still alive have locked themselves in the town barracks. They don't want to risk infecting anyone else while they're out patrolling town."

The blacksmith was flabbergasted. "But … but it's just like back then!" he spluttered, remembering how the unfortunate souls on board the Crimson Ship had nowhere else to go while the disease raged in their bodies. "All these infected in one place—there's nothing we can do to save them?"

"There is _one_ thing we can do—but it isn't enough," Seren told him, pounding the almost full pot of broth with her ladle. "I told Madena to spread the word to all of Dawnstar—no one leaves their homes for any reason, unless they're as protected as the three of us are. Hopefully that'll protect the citizens from catching this Flu as easily as the guards did."

She sprinkled more herbs into the pot, and resumed stirring. "I want to distribute the broth in this pot among all the remaining guards we have. I know it isn't a cure," she sighed, "but it should help deal with the worst of the Flu's symptoms for the time being. It'll do to go on with until we get a _real_ chance at a cure."

Rustleif felt sick, and hoped that it was just a sinking feeling in his stomach. " _Is_ there a real chance at a cure?" he asked. "Was this Knahaten Flu ever cured?"

Seren shook her rag-covered head. "No. Plenty of people tried, but the cures they claimed would work very rarely did. I remember this story of a Redguard maiden, Perizada. Saved an entire village from the Flu by boiling clannfear claws in saltwater—claimed the Divines had told her to do so in a dream. Everyone was just about ready to believe her, try the same method on their villages … but then Perizada herself died of the Flu."

"And suddenly they didn't believe her?" Rustleif asked, thinking he knew where this was going.

"That, I can't tell you. But Perizada wasn't the only one who thought they had a cure, only to find out that it didn't work. Then there were people who'd try to cash in on the panic and deliberately peddle false cures, too." Her voice turned distasteful, and she pulled aside a bit of fabric from her mouth long enough to spit on the floor. Rustleif, though he did not mimic the gesture, sympathized with her, cursing the wiles of such people in his head.

"But yes … " Seren eventually said after wrapping her head back up once again. "A _real_ cure was never found—and even if it was, this all happened a thousand years ago. It's probably one of those things that's been lost to time."

A spattering noise came from behind her at that moment; the pot of broth was bubbling and beginning to spill onto the floor. Seren swore under her breath. "Come help me with this," she told Rustleif as she bustled over. "We'll ladle this into every pot we have and start delivering it to the townsfolk. We'll go to the guards first."

Rustleif remembered what she'd told her about the state of the guards. "Are you sure that's wise?" he asked as he began grabbing cookware from the shelves. "If half the things you've told me about the Flu have already happened to them—well, it seems to me like they might as well be dead already."

He wilted as Seren whipped her head in his direction; though he could not see her face, the look his wife must be giving her felt very severe indeed. "If Dawnstar loses the whole of their town guard," she said, "the Knahaten Flu will be the least of our worries. Like you said, the town would be in chaos; there'd be mass panic, riots and looting. That's not even getting into the threats _outside_ the city. I've never heard of a _dragon_ getting sick with anything, after all—never mind the Flu. No, we have to save them first, or there won't be a Dawnstar left to save."

Rustleif knew she had a point before she'd even mentioned the dragons. As Dawnstar was not a major city in Skyrim, it therefore lacked thick walls and sentry towers like Solitude and Windhelm. This made it a prime target for raiders, pirates, and the occasional fauna attack. Dragons were no exception to the latter of these—especially since there was only one weapon that could be used against them with any measure of success.

"Do you think he's coming back?" he asked, passing one pot after another to Seren as she dutifully filled each one up with steaming broth. "It's been so long since he was gone … I'd hate to think he's abandoned us."

Seren did not immediately answer him—though whether she was just to busy to do so, or because finding a way to answer his question was an even more difficult chore, was hard to say. "I wouldn't say _abandoned_ ," she sighed. "Something about heroes is that they're always destined for greater things, no matter what they do in their lifetime. Whatever lies in store for him just might not involve Skyrim anymore."

"But he saved us all!" said Rustleif in agitation. "He saved the world! What greater thing can a hero do than that?"

This time, he knew from the silence that Seren had no answer.

They worked in silence for a while longer, filling pot after pot with hot broth. Finally, after about half a dozen pots, Seren spoke again. "That message I asked you to deliver to Frorkmar," she said hesitantly, "for the High King."

Rustleif perked up at this. "Did you summon the Dragonborn here?" he asked hopefully.

"No." But just as quickly as Rustleif felt his hopes dashed on the floor, Seren continued, "Not in so many words, anyway. The High King is one of the closest people to the Dragonborn outside the College that I know of. I'd have contacted the College instead, but you know how secluded they are. And even if Varulf can't reach him, then he's well placed to find someone who can."

Rustleif stared at his wife as if seeing her for the first time. He would never have believed that she was capable of planning so far ahead for an emergency like this. The broth and the rags were enough—but going out of her way to contact the High King for aid as well?

The blacksmith decided at that moment he'd never been happier to be married to this woman.

Still … "This is a dangerous risk we're taking," he said, feeling his body slumping from the weight of it all. "If that message was sent _yesterday_ , then there's have no guarantee that the High King will receive our message quickly enough." He looked Seren in the eye, as best his wrappings could let him. "Until we get word back from him, _we are on our own_. It'll be the two of us fighting a threat we've never seen in a thousand years."

He grasped Seren by the shoulders. "Is that something we can be prepared for?"

Seren's covered face looked directly at him. "Dangerous situations sometimes call for dangerous risks." Her muffled voice was like steel. "I will _not_ cower like a frightened maiden when danger breathes on the shoulders of my home and my family—because that is not what I am. I will face this danger like a _warrior_ —like a _Redguard_. Because _that_ is what I am."

Were it not for the rags covering their lips, Rustleif would have kissed his wife on the spot—disease be damned. Instead, he merely settled for an intense look at her swathed face as he embraced her, never more in love with this woman since first meeting her in Hammerfell, those long-past days when he was merely an apprentice who'd caught this woman's eye. His master had been her father, and had jovially given them both his blessings.

Those days had felt like so long ago, but thinking back to them now—and the fires of emotion that had blazed inside his heart back then as they did today—Rustleif knew that the bond that had been forged that day between him and Seren would not be broken by this Flu. They would outlast it, as would Dawnstar, and damn any Daedra who sought to believe otherwise.

After a moment of time that might have been another millennium, they parted. "Well," Seren eventually said, "speaking of dangerous risks … we'd better go to the barracks, make sure we can do what we can for the guards."

Rustleif nodded. "I'll quick check that Makela's still in her cradle," he offered. "I'll catch up with you."

"All right," said Seren, and she stepped out of the house.

Now alone, Rustleif quickly hurried to side of the bed where Makela's cradle stood. The baby, wrapped up in the cleanest cloth Seren could find, continued to sleep on—unaware of the strife that dared to shatter her peaceful world.

The blacksmith spared one moment to smile at his precious daughter, before summoning his courage and hurrying after Seren.

* * *

Dawnstar had never sounded so quiet.

Not a single person was out walking the shoreline that served as one of Dawnstar's two streets. There was no sound of passersby talking, no crunch of boots in the gritty sand save for their own. The only sounds that could be heard were the thin, constant hiss of wind, and the wet slaps of gray waves breaking on the coast.

And there was the ship—the same one he thought he'd seen yesterday during his talk with Skald. Rustleif had been right about it before: the ship was indeed too big to make berth in Dawnstar's tiny bay, even with the _Sea Squall_ gone— _what a time for it to leave_ , the blacksmith thought—and so it had anchored slightly further north, away from any landmasses. Why, Rustleif could not be certain—but just looking at this ship was making him uneasy.

Up close, he could see that the Crimson Ship suited its name; not only the sails, but the entire hull as well, had been stained a dark crimson color—it looked as though it had been sailing in blood. For all Rustleif knew from Seren's tale, something of the sort might well have been the case so long ago. He spent the next few moments trying to fight away the resultant mental image of dozens of sailors huddled together in terror as their bodies bled out from the plague, staining the wood of the ship, and running in rivulets off the hull to form a trail of blood in the ship's wake.

In his efforts to stave off the imagery, Rustleif closed his eyes, trying his hardest to focus on the unfamiliar stillness that had settled over his town like a heavy quilt. Though he had lived here for a long time, the blacksmith had never taken the time to really hear what the world sounded like outside of the life he lived. Before, the only noises he'd cared to hear in this town had been the swing of his hammer on the anvil, the bubbling of hot metal in water, and the creak of the bellows as he stoked the flames of his forge.

It was an unfamiliar feeling—but at the same time, it sounded beautiful. On any other day, the blacksmith would have been entranced by these sounds, would have blocked out all else as he listened to them for hours. But beautiful things could be deadly, too, he reminded himself with another glance at the Crimson Ship—and the knowledge of this was what kept Rustleif in step with his wife as they crossed uptown, passing the inn.

Every door they walked past had been bolted shut and barricaded on the outside—and Rustleif had to assume the other side of the threshold was blocked as well. "And I thought you were the one taking extreme measures," he quipped to Seren, attempting to lighten the grim mood.

The Redguard did not smile. "I might be to blame," she remarked. "After I went to Madena for help, she must have spread the word around town. People in the inn probably panicked, started sealing themselves in their houses. I don't know how much good that will do against a disease—but Madena did say they heeded her advice as well and wrapped themselves up, so we know nobody went around exposing themselves to this Flu."

Rustleif set his jaw. "Except the guards."

"But they're all contained in the barracks," Seren reminded him. "That's something that worries me: if the guards have been the ones getting sick so far, then one of them must have exposed themselves to the Knahaten Flu recently. But I don't know how something like that would happen."

"Could be an animal bite," reasoned Rustleif. "That light armor they wear can only protect against so much. Or maybe … " His voice faltered as another memory from yesterday surfaced in his mind: of a guard passing by his forge while Jarl Skald observed his work, hauling a sailor-type man who'd been coughing all the way—

And it hit him. The only regular sailors in Dawnstar belonged to the _Sea Squall_ — _and the Sea Squall was gone_.

"They _knew_ ," he breathed, feeling the realization sink into his flesh like a thousand icicles. " _That's_ how the guards got infected. That sailor I saw them hauling off to the barracks … then the others must have been infected, too … "

Seren listened to him, and though her face remained invisible beneath the layers of cloth, she picked up her pace for the barracks considerably—as considerably as the hot pot of broth in her hands would let her, at any rate—and Rustleif, sensing the urgency in her steps, matched her speed and followed behind.

 _Oh, gods_ , he kept on thinking as they pounded on the barracks to the door. _If the Sea Squall left Dawnstar—and its crew were infected with the Flu—then all of Skyrim could be in danger._

The knob turned—and Rustleif swore at what lay beyond the threshold.

The barracks were normally a place for the guards of Dawnstar to rest and relax in between their shifts. Today, however, the entire room looked like an abattoir. Dozens of bodies lay in bedrolls, being tended to by several soldiers who had not yet fallen prey to the gruesome effects of the Flu. Every bedroll Rustleif saw was dyed crimson, sodden with blood; some were either so sodden or so worn from use that the blood leaked from them, collecting in puddles underneath the bodies. Worse still, Rustleif saw that all of these bedrolls were twitching and fidgeting every few seconds—everyone in this room was alive.

The stench was the worst of it all, though; Rustleif realized at once that all the herbs Seren had put into her broth were not simply to contribute to the imbiber's recovery, but to mask the smell of decay that was left behind by the people who did not. He quickly took a whiff of the concoction, and was glad for it—but even through this, the blacksmith could still smell hints of the stinking air: the metallic odor of blood … the cloying smell of raw human waste … the smell of death …

While he and Seren looked on, one of the bedrolls suddenly stopped twitching. Suddenly, the pool of blood beneath it grew larger and darker, spreading out from around the bedroll. As if this had been some sort of signal, two guards leapt from their posts to attend to the individual inside. Gingerly, they hoisted up the bedroll—which now began dripping with brownish-red sludge that made Rustleif sick to just look at it—and carried it to the door he knew led to the town jail. A guard posted there opened the door—and the other two guards _heaved_ their dying companion past the threshold, whereupon a wet _smack_ , like raw meat on stone, was heard seconds later.

Their job done, the guards closed the door. The _click_ that followed as the lock was turned was the most final-sounding noise Rustleif had ever heard in his life. A sound so small, announcing an event that loomed so large.

None of the guards had spoken a single word. None of them had protested. None of them had even hesitated. These three guards, seemingly resigned to the fate that had befallen the town they'd sworn to protect, had disposed of their compatriot like spoiled food. No last rites, no prayers to the Divines— _nothing_.

And the worst part, an appalled Rustleif now knew, was that this had become the new _routine_ for them almost literally overnight. So many of these guards had died, and so often, that they no longer grieved for the loss of the sick—but merely threw them away like _trash_ in hopes that they would not be joining their fallen comrades down below.

The inhumanity of it all felt like it was corroding his insides. _Gods, deliver us …_

One of the guards now walked up to them—gingerly enough that Rustleif instinctively knew he too had been infected. "Sorry you had to see that, friends," the guard said unapologetically. His words sounded raw, like he'd been either crying or coughing; frankly, Rustleif did not want to look under the masked helm to find out.

"The best of us are up on the second level," he explained to the pair, "confined to their beds. Everyone on this floor is in the advanced stages of the illness. The best we've been able to do is keep everyone here until … well, you saw what happened to Yngeir," he said heavily. "Second one in the past hour."

Rustleif bit his lip to ward away the unpleasant image.

If Seren harbored any disgust for the scene before her eyes, she did not show it in her words. "We came here to help in any way we can," she said, producing her broth for the guard to see. "Madena gave me the recipe—she says it'll help slow down the symptoms. Make sure everyone who's still alive gets a bowl—we'll be making more for the entire town as the day goes on.

"Start with the infected on the second floor," she instructed the guard, slipping into what years of marriage had caused Rustleif to call Seren's "lecturing mode", "and work your way down from there. The more of them we can help, the more people they can help as well. You're our best shot at making sure Dawnstar doesn't have any more problems to worry about besides the Flu."

"What about the Jarl?" asked the guard.

"That's where we're going next," Seren said, as she helped dole out bowlfuls of broth for the guard to distribute. "We have about six more pots like this sitting back at home. With any luck, that'll be enough for every person in Dawnstar to have a day's worth of chicken broth. We take care of the guards first, then the Jarl's court, then Madena and Frida. As soon as I've seen to those two, they'll be helping me with taking care of any more sick."

"If you ask me, they'll be fighting a losing battle," the guard said with a grunting sigh. "Not much a body can do against a sickness like this. I've had to watch over three dozen people go through the same door poor Yngeir did over the course of the night, and never come back out. I'm not sure it's going to stay at three dozen."

"Leave that to us." Seren finished ladling out her broth. "Frorkmar in the White Hall's gone off to Windhelm and ask the High King for aid. Until then, we'll do everything we can to keep the town healthy."

She indicated the bowls. "That should be more than enough for every single person in the guard. If you have any broth left over, keep it near the fire so it stays warm. Rustleif and I are going to head back and prepare some more. Make sure every inch of skin is covered with your soldiers, no matter how sick they are," she instructed the guard as she turned to leave. "None of us want this spreading around any more than you do."

The guard nodded, and turned to give out bowls of broth.

"Wait," Rustleif said. "How did this start? Who was the first person to get infected?"

The guard considered this for a moment. "What I heard," he said, "this all started after Guthrum from the Sea Squall got arrested for punching his shipmate—something about seeing a ghost in a white dress. Captain Wayfinder had him sent to the jail for the night. He came back later that night to collect him, but Guthrum was already dead."

"He _what?!_ " Seren spoke up, alarmed. "That's impossible!"

"That's what everyone else said when they heard the tale," the guard said. "But after he learned Guthrum had died, Wayfinder and his mate sailed out of town like the Thalmor were after them. Had a scout come in from the shores out west around midnight, and he told me that he saw their ship sailing north."

Seren grunted. "That's not what I m—wait," she said. "North to where?"

The guard only spoke one word. "North."

Guthrum felt a blow to his stomach as he made sense of the reply. That settled it; Wayfinder and the other member of his crew had all been infected with the Flu. That was why they were no longer around; they'd sailed out of Dawnstar, away from the mainland, from any chance at infecting any more people, heading further north until the sickness had finally claimed them.

Whether Guthrum had infected them, too … "I wish they'd stuck around," the blacksmith said bitterly. "I'd have liked to know how the hell this all started."

"I'm not sure it matters at this point," replied the guard. "Not with so many of my men and women in this state. Besides, I don't think they were any good to us anyway. That little boat couldn't have held everyone in Dawnstar."

The indifference toward the loss of the sailors' lives stung, but deep down Rustleif knew the guard had a point. That ship could never have taken an entire town with it in one sitting. It would have capsized before leaving the bay—and not everyone in Dawnstar could swim.

They'd sacrificed themselves in order to make sure no one else died because of them … and yet, Rustleif thought, they'd inadvertently made the lives of those still living even harder in the process. For it had implied that either Wayfinder and his first mate had known something about the Knahaten Flu, though not enough to help cure the guards and townsfolk if it came to it.

Fools, he thought bitterly. They'd been utter fools …

Abruptly, he stood up; he could no longer stomach this place. He wanted nothing more than to leave. "Are you ready to go, Seren?" he asked, his words sounding clipped. "I'd like to get this next batch started."

The pause in his wife's reply suggested she had sensed the urgency in his voice, and she nodded. Both husband and wife quietly took their leave of the barracks—though Rustleif spared one last look at the door to the jail before following Seren out into Dawnstar.

* * *

He had to fight an incredible urge to rip off the strips of clothing that wrapped around his lips and be sick on the shoreline. The scene in the barracks, combined with the ensuing conversation, had almost overwhelmed Rustleif's senses; only the welcome smell of the broth had prevented him from losing his breakfast then and there.

Seren, on the other hand, sounded worried. "Something isn't right about any of this," she said, when Rustleif asked her why. "Knahaten Flu's deadly, all right—but it usually takes anywhere from a few days to a week to kill."

"So?"

"Didn't you hear what the guard said?" asked Seren. "This Guthrum person died in less than a _day_ —which means all the other guards who died were infected for even less time than that. Even the Flu isn't that devastating. In fact, I don't know of any disease in Skyrim that kills so quickly."

"Maybe he was weakened to begin with," Rustleif considered. "He certainly didn't look at all like a strong fellow. He was old—probably drank a lot, too, if he was a sailor. The Flu probably couldn't have picked a better target."

"But as no disease in Tamriel is able to think for itself," chided Seren, "not even the Flu, I think we have to assume he ran afoul of it somehow. Probably an animal attack—like one of those cave-trolls."

Rustleif had no reply to that. It was the most likely suggestion, but he had to wonder exactly how a sailor who hardly ever left his boat could run afoul of any animal, never mind a troll.

He shook his head. This was looking to be a long day indeed.

* * *

They returned home to the stifled cries of Makela, and for a moment Rustleif feared the worst. But Seren, after shedding the swaddling that covered the infant's body, soon determined that she was hungry—and rather pungent, too. While Rustleif disposed of the soiled clothes, Seren began preparing a second pot of chicken broth for the citizens in the White Hall. Makela clung to her exposed breast, happily guzzling away.

"If you can take this next pot to the White Hall, I'll head over to Madena and Frida with the one after that as soon as I've put Makela to bed," Seren offered as she stroked the tan skin of her daughter's neck. "We'll cover more ground that way, hopefully take care of more people."

Rustleif agreed. He was about to take up the cookware, full to the brim, when he suddenly stopped in his tracks.

In the quiet that had enveloped the town, sounds that Rustleif had never taken the time to hear were now magnified tenfold, even indoors. Even through the drafty doors, the thatched roof, and the shredded clothes over his face, the blacksmith could hear every gust of wind and roll of waves as clearly as if they were in the next room.

And what he was hearing sounded even closer.

He whirled in Seren's direction, but—"I know," the Redguard said, an equal amount of alarm and confusion in her words. "I hear it too … it sounds like a _song_ … "

Rustleif nodded grimly. "So _who's out there?_ "

They stood there in silence for another moment before making their way to the door. Rustleif got there first, immediately making his way to the porch, whereupon he scanned Dawnstar from one end of town to the next, looking for any sign of life to the song that echoed in his ears.

There was no one out there.

Frowning, Rustleif stepped out into the open, intent on checking over the ridge behind their house. Warily, Seren followed him, Makela still cradled in her arms, her head turning this way and that to find any trace of the source of the nameless, wordless tune.

"Sounds like a woman," she noted, half to herself. "But even Karita doesn't have a voice like that … "

Rustleif, however, was not listening to his wife for the first time in forever. He concentrated on the silence in the town, ears pricked, trying to use the lack of civilized noise in Dawnstar to find out where the melody was coming from. Round and round he turned, gazing in a full circle until he was almost snow-blind—

And then he saw it.

For a moment, he thought it might have been a trick of the light—a reflection of a sunbeam off the snow—but there it was, plain as the day; it stood atop the highest point of the White Hall, perched on the rafter as if it was about to dive right off. A tall, thin figure it was, clad in silver-white gossamer; the dress hugged its supple curves. Rustleif could not make out any hair beneath the long, flowing veil that concealed its face. The song it sang was positively entrancing; he could not look away from the figure.

Seren, too, was enraptured. "Who _is_ that?" Her voice was a bare whisper.

The singing stopped at that moment, and Dawnstar was silent once more. At that moment, Rustleif became aware that the figure atop the Jarl's residence was _moving_. The fluttering of its garments in the wind made it difficult to tell, but it almost appeared to be turning around, as if taking in its surroundings from on high. After a few moments of this, however, it suddenly stopped; Rustleif was just barely able to see that its chest was facing in their direction.

He felt a chill as he remembered what that guard had said: " _… something about a woman in a white dress …_ "

"Seren … ?"

But the question died on his lips when he saw what the figure was doing now. A single arm, pale as the snow around it, was raised to its fullest extent—and then swung, unmistakably, in the direction of the blacksmith.

 _It was pointing right at him_.

Rustleif whipped his head around so quickly he cricked his neck. "SEREN—GET INSIDE NOW!"

There was no time for argument. The Redguard had heard the sheer terror in her husband's words, and the couple had immediately bolted for their household. Seren, owing to Makela's weight on her breast, fell behind in short order, but Rustleif boosted her inside all the same.

"Shut the door, quick!" Rustleif said urgently. They did so together, bolting the door tightly shut. As the lock clicked, Rustleif let out a breath.

"What in the name of Satakal was _that?!_ " demanded Seren, hurriedly depositing Makela in her crib and swaddling her back up as fast as she could.

Rustleif could not give her a straight answer. However … "I think that sailor might have seen the same thing," he said, "right before he died from the Flu."

"Do you think it saw us?" asked Seren as she wrapped up her previously exposed breast.

The blacksmith nodded. "Aye, there's no doubt it did. I just hope that we didn't stay too long to find out what _else_ it might have done."

"What is it, though?" Seren wanted to know. "Some kind of ghost?"

Rustleif imagined he looked grim beneath his wrappings. "I'm beginning to think so," he said, "and I think I might know where it came from."

There was a silent moment of understanding between husband and wife that seemed to last an eternity—until it was broken by a faint coughing noise.

Both Nord and Redguard froze upon hearing that. "What was that?" Rustleif said—but the sudden pit that had yawned open inside him told him the answer before he'd even turned in its direction.

Seren had beaten him to it, and was already ripping off the rags that covered Makela even as the baby coughed again. Then she coughed again … and again.

By the time Rustleif had reached the cradle, Seren had stripped Makela to her skin—and both husband and wife had clapped a hand to their mouths in horror when they saw the faint red spots that lined the lips of their only child.

Almost automatically, Rustleif moved to comfort his wife as she stood there, stock-still and shaking in wordless grief. The gesture did nothing to comfort his own self—the blacksmith felt as though he'd been hurled off the Throat of the World at the sight … he was falling, falling, every inch of him going cold with dread as he realized what was happening … _Makela_ , he thought, _please, for the love of Talos, Ysmir, and Shor,_ please not Makela …

But the horror didn't stop there. Slowly, almost painfully so, Rustleif turned to face his wife, but the stricken look in Seren's tearing eyes told him everything he'd feared was true. The wrappings that covered the baby's favored breast had already been pulled aside, exposing the brown flesh underneath.

And around her nipple, the same crimson spots …

* * *

 

* * *

 


	4. III

III

_Winterhold_

The sun had reached its zenith by the time the outskirts of the northernmost town in Skyrim came into view. At least, Ralof thought it was at its zenith—the snowstorm blowing around him was so fierce that all he seemed to see was a mass of gray and white. That gray and white, however, had never looked brighter than it had all morning.

That brightness seemed to dim, however, with every step his horse took towards what remained of the town.

Winterhold had lain in this ruined state since before Ralof had been born—indeed, since before his father had been born—but in the eighty years since the disaster that had caused over half the town to crumble into the Sea of Ghosts, no one had ever been quite sure as to why it had happened at all. The only thing that was agreed upon—at least, by the few people who still called it home—was that the mages of the nearby College either had something to do with it, or _should've_ had something to do with it.

Save for a few outlying houses, the only institution in Skyrim that was devoted to the study of magic was the only part of Winterhold that had not been touched by the Great Collapse. It hung there, virtually dangling by two threads of weathered rock that should not be able to hold its weight unsupported—but that was the one thing about the mages in this place: their magic could do anything. Many agreed that this magic was the only thing that kept the College standing—and this magic, some believed, ought to have been shared with the people of Winterhold, so that their town would continue thriving to this very day.

When Ralof had discovered that the man who would become the Dragonborn—the man he'd helped to safety in an escape he would be telling his children and theirs until he was old and grey—had not only joined the College of Winterhold, but become its Arch-Mage as well, his opinion of mages had been thrown into doubt. Like most Nords, Ralof had been distrustful of their craft, and last year's crisis with the Black Worm had augmented those fears significantly. Knowing one of those mages was the man who'd rescued Skyrim and the world from destruction, however, gave him some semblance of comfort—if only because at least of all the madmen who dwelled in that bleak corner of Skyrim, the madman who led them was someone Ralof could put his trust in.

But then he'd learned that, to make matters even more maddening, the moment the Dragonborn had averted the crisis and slain the monster that had devastated Morthal, murdered its Jarl, then proceeded to attack Solitude, Windhelm, and the Emperor's vessel itself … he'd vanished from sight. He'd no word of his destination, where he might have gone, or even why. For almost a year after that, no one knew where he was. Only Varulf seemed to have some inkling—but if he really did know anything about where he had gone, he wasn't telling. Yet the High King seemed adamant that the Dragonborn had not vanished as completely from Skyrim as he would have her people believe—yet the only people who could truly answer that question were not inclined to do so.

Nevertheless, here stood Ralof, before one of those very people. He'd tied off his steed on a nearby post, and reassured him that he would be back soon. Ralof had fully intended to keep his visit to Winterhold brief—not just so he could get his horse out of this ungodly weather, but also because the stillness of the town made the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen in a way that had nothing to do with the cold.

That feeling was amplified another notch when he heard the echoing cry in the wind that blew in his face. Instantly, his hand flew to the blade on his hip, though Ralof knew that would do little good against the scales of a dragon—and the shield he carried might as well have been made of soap bubbles against their fire. He recalled what Varulf had said about the absence of other dragons in Winterhold, and wondered if maybe he was overthinking things. There was a mountain nearby, after all, on which they were known to roost. Even so, hearing the roar of the great beast, however far away it might be, was enough to make him wonder if maybe there was one nearby after all.

Resolutely, Ralof soldiered on through the cold toward the College, ignoring the bite of the cold as best he could.

"Cross the bridge at your own peril!" someone barked just then, and Ralof jumped. Almost without realizing it, his feet had carried him right to the foot of the bridge that separated the College from the rest of the town. He cursed himself; he'd been so absorbed in his thoughts that he had no idea where his own feet were taking him.

The source of the voice, meanwhile, stared back at him with a strange look on her face. "The way is dangerous," said the tall Altmer standing across from Ralof, "and the gate will not open. You shall not gain entry!"

Ralof heaved a groaning sigh—he didn't have time for any preambles. "High King Varulf sent me!" he had to holler over the freezing wind that continued to buffet his exposed face.

He extracted the letter Varulf had entrusted to him with fumbling fingers, numb from the cold. "I was told to deliver this to your Arch-Mage! It's urgent this finds his hands immediately!"

The Altmer frowned down at him. "The Arch-Mage is away on business at the moment," she said flatly, pocketing the scroll without even opening it up. "I can show you to the Master Wizard, if _your_ business cannot wait—"

She broke off as Ralof crossed the distance between them in a single stride. Though the Nord was a full head shorter than the mage, he was not deterred—he could not afford to be, and neither could the people of Dawnstar.

"Listen to me, _mage_ ," he growled in the most intimidating voice the blizzard would allow him. "There's a town full of sick people in Skyrim who need help. They need a hero. If that hero doesn't show up, they could all be dead. Do you want that on your conscience?"

"The Dragonborn is a hero, yes," said the high elf, "but he is also a mage of Winterhold. He is not bound by any sort of honor or duty to help the people of Skyrim for every little moment in their lives. Sickness can be treated, even cured. Anyone can do that—and then they can be a hero in the eyes of their people."

Ralof had to do his damnedest to resist the urge of bull-rushing this obstinate mage off the cliff. "Heroes are supposed to _help people_!" he said hotly, despite the wind continuing to shriek in his face. "What kind of hero is your Dragonborn, that you would keep him away from his own countrymen?"

"The kind of hero that fights for something _more_ than his people, or their country," the Altmer shot back. "A village filled of sick people is tragic, but against the forces the Dragonborn fights against, it is insignificant."

"Tell that to the people of Dawnstar!" roared Ralof, his fury quickly turned into a coughing fit from the continuing snowstorm. "The longer we sit here freezing our arses off and arguing like whelps, the more people in that town end up dying to the Knahaten Flu! If these people aren't cured, this whole damned province is going to be knee-deep in disease—and the only person who can help them is inside your College right now!"

The Altmer drew back, looking unsettled for the first time since Ralof had seen her. "The Knahaten Flu?" she repeated, sloped eyes narrowed as she inspected the scroll he'd been carrying. Ralof saw her lips move, repeating the half-dozen words on the parchment; with each syllable, those eyes narrowed further still.

She replaced the letter in her robes with a sniff. "I'll need to confirm this with the senior staff," she said shortly. "If what you are saying is true, then we will investigate this Flu, and whatever its source might be."

Ralof was not convinced. "And what of its people? Are you going to let them die while you do your confirmations and investigations?"

"I did not say that," the elf said coldly, "nor will you ever hear me saying such like it. Our master of restoration may be able to assist them; she has trained alongside the healers of Kynareth in the past, and is therefore better placed to determine if Dawnstar has truly fallen victim to this flu."

"Out of the question." Ralof had had enough posturing; his body tensed, ready to make a run for the bridge, and he noticed the Altmer's fingers tense as well. "If you want to send in a healer, fine. Send in all the healers you want for all I care. But the Dragonborn comes with her. One mage is not enough to save a town. And you've got one town on your conscience already," Ralof added, glancing at the ruined buildings around them—the survivors of the disaster that had struck the town long ago. "Do you want the destruction of _another_ to weigh upon you, just because you didn't listen to your High King?"

The elven mage glowered at him. "You go too far, _soldier_ ," she hissed, a warning tone in her words. "You would do well to choose your next words _very carefully_ , or I just might—"

But whatever the Altmer might have done to Ralof remained unanswered, as she broke off upon hearing the echoing roar of the dragon.

Out of instinct, Ralof's hand immediately flew to his sword—though he could see no dragon, that roar had sounded very close by indeed. But something was off about this; the high elf had not brought her magic to bear, to fight off this dragon herself. Not that it would have mattered, Ralof knew—there was only one man in the whole world who could _truly_ kill a dragon—

That was when it hit him—quite literally: the next roaring sound came at the exact same moment a gust of wind blasted from the north, nearly knocking him off his feet. Even as he fought to stay upright in the blizzard, Ralof knew his hunch had already been confirmed; the dragon's roar not only sounded _much closer_ than before, but was also being carried on the _northern_ wind—and there were only four other landmasses to the north of this part of Skyrim that could accommodate a dragon and its hoard. The first of them, the nameless mountain beneath which Ysgramor himself had been entombed, could be eliminated immediately, as even in death, his spirit gave any who would disturb his resting place pause, dragon or no. The second Ralof had visited himself on numerous occasions; the ice wraiths that infested Serpentstone Isle served to test any willing Nord who wished to join the Stormcloaks.

Since the third was too close to the College of Winterhold, that left only one other option—the College itself.

Slowly, Ralof rounded on the Altmer, and he was pleased to see that she looked more troubled than before. _Gotcha_ , he thought triumphantly—if this elf had even half his smarts, she'd just come to the same conclusion, and knew now that her ruse had failed.

"Care to explain _that_ , elf?" he demanded. "Awful strange for a dragon to roost that far up north, wouldn't you say?"

The high elf recovered quickly—much too quickly, Ralof might have thought if he weren't so eager to hold this mage over a barrel. "Don't ask me to fathom the way a dragon's mind works," she snapped. "If you want to answer that question so badly, maybe you should ask the dragon yourself."

Ralof noticed only too late that the Altmer's eyes were glowing. He was about to bring his sword to bear when he realized that the elf was no longer looking at him, but somewhere _past_ him, up and off to his left. Ralof, wary of some tricks, gripped his sword tighter, slowly turning to match where the elf was looking.

" _Ven … mey miin_."

The Stormcloak was only aware of three whispered words from somewhere above him—and moments later, there came a sudden shimmering that covered his entire eyes, as though a bucket of water had been dumped on them while they were still open. A moment later, Ralof's sword had dropped to the ground, and he'd suddenly started scrabbling backward on all fours, swearing violently as a sudden panic gripped his heart more cruelly than any cold.

After the past several years in which the dragons had returned to Tamriel, Ralof had grown used to seeing their scaly forms, horned heads, spiked tails, and massive wings. He, like most other men and women in Skyrim, had no intention of fighting them one against one—not out of cowardice, but out of self-preservation. Unless you had a death wish—or unless you were a certain Nord—going off gallivanting to fight a dragon was the epitome of recklessness. For this reason, Ralof had only seen them from a distance up until now, and was grateful for it—in his mind, the beasts were best viewed that way.

 _This_ dragon, however, was a completely different story—mostly because it had appeared literally _inches_ away from Ralof's mailed chest, quite literally out of thin air.

The Stormcloak was too terrified to notice the warmth that was spreading across his groin. The sudden gust of wind from only moments ago had now registered; his fingers were numb from both cold and fear, and his gaze did not waver even a hair from the black eyes of the crimson beast that stared back at him, unblinkingly. His body refused to move even a muscle even as the long neck of the beast dipped to better see its prey, filling his vision completely—all that was on his mind was that he was surely staring death in the face.

At length, enough of Ralof's senses returned to him that he could feel a sucking sensation on his exposed skin. It took him several long moments before he realized that he wasn't dead yet, and several more before he saw the undulating nostrils of the dragon, wide enough to fit his sword—which might as well be nothing more than a toothpick against its reddened hide.

Belatedly, the Stormcloak realized _it was sniffing him_. It was not a comforting thought, and even when the dragon pulled its head back a few feet, Ralof kept very still.

" _Hi pook se thuri_ ," rumbled the beast. Ralof said nothing in reply—for all he knew, the dragon was wondering if he tasted better when raw or cooked to a crisp.

And then—incredibly—the elf spoke up. "Stop making a scene, Odahviing," she said, in a tone that a stunned Ralof could only call _scolding._ In spite of this, her voice, too, was trembling—and if Ralof peered out of the corner of his eye, he could see that the rest of the elf's body was just as shaken by the sudden appearance.

 _Wait …_ His mind slowly began to make sense of what he was hearing. _Odahviing?! That's—!_

The dragon snorted. "My _thuri_ watches from his _hofkah_ ," said the dragon in slow, broken Cyrodiilic, "and his _miin_ still serves him well in his _wuth bok_. He sees two _joorre_ on the threshold of his steading, holding _tiinvak_ fit to be exchanged with _dovahhe_ like myself. Both of these people he knows and remembers well. But he does not wish to be disturbed—"

It took a long moment for Ralof's senses to catch up with him. When they did, however, he proceeded to do the unthinkable—and interrupt the dragon in the midst of his discourse.

"Odahviing," he was stammering breathlessly, the words tumbling out of his half-numb tongue. "B-but—you serve the Dragonborn! Y-y-you were the dragon who carried him to Skuldafn, and saw him off to Sovngarde itself, where he defeated Alduin!"

He'd heard the story from many Stormcloak guards who'd occupied Whiterun after capturing it from Balgruuf the Greater; a number of them had served under the city's former Jarl, and had borne witness to the unprecedented event of a dragon being captured live inside Dragonsreach itself. This, Ralof knew, was that dragon—commanded by the Dragonborn to help him defeat the World-Eater, and thereafter had entered his service as the deadliest of many weapons that the legendary warrior had at his disposal.

Except that legendary warrior hadn't been seen in over a year. Had he really been here this whole time?! Why had he chosen not to show himself?! Since when could his dragon turn invisible?! Ralof's mind was overflowing with questions at this point; it was a long time before he could calm himself down to get to his feet—and longer still before he could summon enough courage to explain himself to a fully-grown dragon.

Fortunately, however, the elf seemed to have leapt to his defense. "He's claiming that the High King sent him," she was saying to Odahviing, her tone now much more calm and measured. She was now showing the contents of the scroll to the dragon, almost shoving the parchment right up to one of its jet-black eyes.

"Handpicked me … personally," Ralof managed to gasp out, attempting to get a word in edgewise. "Said it was … because I knew him the best … "

The dragon was looking intently at the Altmer. "If nothing else, it should be looked into," the elf said. "This claim is too serious for us to just ignore. I'll relay this to the Arch-Mage at once."

Ralof let out a breath he realized he hadn't been holding. "Let me come with you," he offered. "I'd like to catch up with old Grimnir while I'm here. He and I go way back … "— _and maybe hearing the news from me will show him just how seriously the High King is taking this_ , he thought.

But the Altmer was already turning away from him. "Your part has been played, soldier—you've done enough service to Skyrim for one day," she said. "You have the word of the College that the High King's request will not go unanswered. Go now—rest at the barracks in town before you return to Windhelm. You've had a long journey, and this storm won't be going away any time soon; I'd wager neither has been very easy on you."

There was a strange tone to her words, much more soothing than it had been before—and was Ralof hearing things, or was that _pity_ in her voice as well? At any rate, the numbness in his legs had grown too bad to ignore, and he was in no mood to protest any further in this damnable weather. Going back to make his report to Varulf today would be a fool's errand. He needed a warm bed and warmer food before he could even think of returning back.

The Altmer mage, meanwhile, had extended the scroll to Odahviing once more, and Ralof could not help but watch in a strange sort of fascination as the crimson dragon's jaws yawned open, and his tongue snaked out, the pointed tip curling around the tiny scroll with incredible dexterity. How the scroll didn't get ruined from the moisture in the dragon's breath, Ralof wasn't sure—he could only assume that the elf had protected it with some manner of sorcery, since he had not seen Wuunferth do anything of the like.

Odahviing, meanwhile, had spread his crimson wings; clouds of snow erupted around his bulk as he soared into the storm, bound north and east for the College. Ralof could only stand there, amazed at the spectacle—and more so that he had survived being so up close to a real-life dragon.

It was almost enough to make him burst out laughing. _Gerdur and Frodnar are never going to believe this_ , he thought, already picturing his sister and his nephew sitting with him the next time he was on leave in Riverwood, listening with bated breath and eyes wide as septims as he related his next thrilling tale with the Stormcloaks.

He made to turn around and head for the inn—maybe they'd have someplace in the back he could tie up his horse without it freezing to death—when he suddenly paused. A lapse in the shrieking winds that buffeted Winterhold had afforded him a clear view of the College and its parapets. Odahviing, now the size of an average hawk, had alighted upon the tallest of those parapets, and was lost to sight moments after that.

But if Ralof squinted, he could almost make out a smaller form, standing at the very edge of the College's tallest tower … one that looked suspiciously like a cloaked man.

Then the storm had resumed, and the College was once again lost to sight. Moments later, so was Ralof; having set on his way to the inn, he was swallowed up by the blizzard almost immediately. As he trudged through the driving snow, he found the air much less cold, from the sudden fire that had sprung up in his heart at the sight on the tower. Nevertheless, he could not help but wonder if the elf that guarded the College had been right … if there truly was nothing more that he could do to help the people of Dawnstar in their darkest hour yet … and if the Dragonborn, now that Ralof knew him to be here, would be able to do _enough_.

As he slipped into the grateful warmth of the Frozen Hearth, he idly wondered what in Talos' name the man had been doing all this time …

* * *

The cloaked figure atop the College continued to stare downward for a long time. Stately blue robes, trimmed with furs and expertly sewn, whipped around his form in the howling wind, giving no indication that he was otherwise protected against the dreadful weather. But if he was affected by it, he did not show it; he remained unruffled, and stood upon the stone floor as if rooted there as Odahviing waited patiently behind him, awaiting the sign of acknowledgement from his _thuri_.

There had been a time, once, when the face of Grimnir Torn-Skull had been recognizable throughout all of Skyrim. He'd not been an especially handsome Nord—certainly no Ysgramor—but neither had his facial features marked him as some kind of pariah; in fact, his lack of noteworthy appearance had itself been noteworthy. He had the same blond hair, the same light blue eyes—if perhaps a bit more piercing than normal—and even the same thick Nordic accent that most of his people possessed. Even after learning of his ancient destiny to be a great hero, it had always surprised people seeing him for the first time as to how … _plain_ he'd looked.

 _It feels so long ago …_ he thought.

Now, that unremarkable façade was gone—Grimnir's gaze no longer possessed the iciness of the world around him. One of his eyes now bore the brunt of a horrific injury; even a year onward from that fateful day, he could feel the stinging in the empty socket. Today had been especially bad, as the wind kept hissing through the slits of the ancient malachite mask he presently wore, tearing at the hole in his flesh like hundreds of tiny claws. This had only been the crux of a litany of wounds Grimnir suffered in the days leading up to the loss of his eye; he'd been gouged, burned, flayed alive … all because he'd been hellbent on eradicating a threat to Skyrim whose scope he'd vastly underestimated. More injuries had followed, yes—but those had been the worst … physically, at least. Even so, the injuries in the year that followed had imposed even more drastic changes upon him.

His flaxen hair, too, was only a memory now—every strand burned away by the fires of mages, dragons, and _things_ too terrible to describe. Frost magic had ravaged his once-ordinary face and torn away part of one ear, giving nearly half of his head the look of weathered wood. Grimnir's other ear, already a blackened stump in that relentless pursuit of the previous year, crowned the other half of that face, blistered and burned so badly that it looked almost melted. For Grimnir, all of these wounds served to remind him who and _what_ he was—a reminder of the burden he carried that set him apart from all other Nords, his plain appearance be damned.

It had been that same burden which had led him away from Skyrim that year, and in pursuit of the one other being in all of Skyrim he might ever have had so much in common with … _another Dragonborn_ …

Grimnir sighed, and turned round, allowing his single eye to focus on the ice fields on the other side of the College. Odahviing's scaly neck turned, the dragon's black eyes never leaving him, but the Arch-Mage's mind was elsewhere. Somewhere in the distance, out of sight beyond all the clouds and snow, he knew _it_ was waiting there—almost as if to mock his new disfigurements … the new face the world must now associate him with.

_Solstheim …_

* * *

Much like him, the island bore two halves to its own face: the southern side, ravaged and consumed by the fires and ash that still spewed from Red Mountain, even nearly two centuries on from the disaster that had struck Morrowind. The northern half of the landmass, though, had been shielded from the eruption, and so remained just as frozen and craggy as the extreme edges of Skyrim. Very few settled here, save for the stunted rieklings and the peaceful Skaal.

 _The Skaal …_ Grimnir felt a block of ice slide through his gullet at the memory of the Nords he'd met up there. Even though the new shaman of their village had forgiven him for the part he'd played in eliminating the threat that faced their island, it had been a much tougher job to forgive himself in the time after that. In destroying one threat, he had allowed another to worm its way into the heart of their village, and the secrets they guarded most jealously.

Grimnir had retreated after that, never staying in one place too long—never allowing himself to be tempted by the lure of more powerful mysteries than even the Skaal possessed, kept within the squirming clutches of Hermaeus Mora—for that had been the threat posed to Solstheim; the First Dragonborn, the Traitor called Miraak, had fallen under the sway of the Daedric Prince, and gained unimaginable power. Yet Grimnir had defeated him, too—Miraak and his minions had been slain to the last, defeated as only a Dragonborn could defeat them.

There was no longer _a_ Dragonborn now, though. There was only _the_ Dragonborn—the _Last_.

Grimnir had remembered standing there, watching the sizzling, skeletal remains of a man he had known for only a fraction of his life, yet who had shared the same blessings and curses he had for years. Perhaps most mockingly of all, neither had ever seen the other's face, even in Miraak's dying moments after their final battle in the alien realm of Apocrypha.

He was alone now.

For a long time after that, he'd wandered around Solstheim, coming to terms with the ramifications of what he'd done. He hadn't been alone here, at least—another student at the College had come with him. Ultimately, however, Brelyna Maryon had come to Solstheim for her own purposes. No sooner had the Dunmer disembarked at Raven Rock than they'd gone their separate ways—he to the legend of Miraak, she to the towering mushrooms of Tel Mithryn and her eventual master. Neloth had quickly proved himself to be a demanding wizard to Brelyna, and a valuable assistance to Grimnir—if proving himself rather eccentric in both cases; the few times he saw Brelyna in that time, she looked as if she was at her wits' end.

"He's had me hopping all over Aurbis for the smallest things you can imagine," she'd said to him on one such occasion—the first time, in fact, that Grimnir had met Neloth personally. "Last week he sent me to one of Sanguine's realms to get a daedra heart for his _tea_! And the things I saw in that realm … "

She'd shuddered and said no more here; Grimnir, having some understanding of the Daedric Prince of hedonistic revelry, decided not to press for further details. Not that he would have been able to, as Neloth had whisked him away to a Dwarven ruin mere moments after the two mages' brief encounter. Nevertheless, he decided then that he'd try and visit Brelyna more often, to make sure the Telvanni apprentice didn't crack under the workload of her taskmaster.

That had been before Grimnir had defeated Miraak, of course, and his eventual return to Tel Mithryn had been born not only out of loyalty to his student, but as a means to cope with this … _emptiness_ he'd been feeling ever since. Watching Miraak die—though he knew it would save the land—had felt as if a part of the Arch-Mage had died in Apocrypha. Even as Hermaeus Mora laughed at the fall of his loyal servant from the summit of his realm, and lavished his new one with promises of knowledge beyond any that mortal minds could even comprehend, Grimnir had stared defiantly back at the Daedric Prince's slimy, boneless, disembodied limbs and the floating eyes in their midst, angry beyond words.

Eventually—perhaps inevitably—the solitude had proved too much for his thoughts to bear, and once again, he found himself before the titanic fungi of Tel Mithryn—just in time to catch a steaming Brelyna making her way away for yet another demand from Neloth: in this case, retrieving a staff made by the famous Azra Nightwielder, which according to Neloth was located in one of the most remote areas in all of Skyrim.

"And he wants me to bring it back to him by the end of the week!" Brelyna had seethed. "I'm starting to wonder if I'm his apprentice at all—I feel more like a _servant_. I've got too much to deal with already—I've got taproots to soak in this one river on the north side of the island, and Neloth's _other_ servant was found dead on the shoreline a few days ago, so now he wants me to find a _new_ one … "

She'd kept on gnashing her teeth all the way to the remains of Fort Frostmoth, and it was there that Grimnir first had the idea. He'd never thought about it before—Solstheim was a long way away from Skyrim, maybe too far away for him to hear—but he wouldn't know unless he tried.

And so he'd tried.

" _ODAHVIING!_ "

Only ten minutes later (quicker than he'd expected, though still longer than any time he'd had to wait for the Shout to be heard), the two mages were sailing over Raven Rock port on the back of Grimnir's dragon.

It wasn't long, however, before Grimnir's elation had waned, and he began to feel a sudden _reluctance_ ; even though it was his first time seeing the province in almost a year, he had heard whispers of how much Skyrim had changed. Though he never said as much, he knew those whispers were true—he knew full well what had happened even before it actually had.

It was for this reason that Grimnir discovered, for the first time in his life, _he was afraid to come home_.

Had anyone guessed the truth of what happened? the Arch-Mage had wondered over and over again. Would he be tried for what he had done—perhaps even convicted, imprisoned, or worse?

Brelyna, thankfully, had noticed the change that had come over him. After some coaxing and confessing, she'd cast a spell on him to shield him from sight—an advanced invisibility spell she'd no doubt learned from Neloth. She'd then cast the same spell on herself, disappearing from view and making it appear as though Odahviing was just another dragon flying around Skyrim.

Grimnir had not told Brelyna everything about what had happened in the time leading up to Skyrim's political upheaval. Nor did he think he ever could—Neloth hadn't completely worked the idealist out of her yet, and the Arch-Mage was worried that if the Dunmer ever caught wind of the whole story, he'd be sacked before year's end, disgraced for the rest of his life—a wanted man.

Nevertheless, he felt happier than he'd ever been this year—he felt _free_. Free to go wherever he wanted, free to do whatever he wanted. For that one shining voyage, he was no longer the Last Dragonborn. Nor was he the Arch-Mage of Winterhold—or even the Thane of Whiterun or the plaything of a Daedric Prince.

He was _Grimnir Torn-Skull_.

The elation had surged back up in his chest as quickly as they'd risen into the air. In his happiness, Grimnir had kicked off a satchel that contained a few of the trophies he'd collected on Solstheim—including a pair of thick, black-bound books he wouldn't be missing any time soon—and cast them into the sea. But _Grimnir Torn-Skull_ did not care.

As the setting sun had sunk into the horizon, and the thin, jagged line of Skyrim had grown ever more present by the second, Grimnir had found the prospect of returning to Winterhold more satisfying than he would have believed. He'd envisioned himself stepping back into its drafty halls, where he'd listen to Tolfdir prattle on to the newest batch of prospective mages. Then, he'd settle into the Arcanaeum and ask Urag to recommend a book for him to while away the time, while the Orc librarian lectured those same prospective mages on how to treat his "own little plane of Oblivion" with the respect it deserved. With any luck, he'd see J'zargo there, chuckling at a pilfered folio of _The Lusty Argonian Maid_ , and Grimnir would walk up to the irrepressible Khajiit that had once called himself his rival, but who now called Grimnir his _friend_ , and the two would sit there until nightfall, trading tales of better days.

 _It'll be good_ , he had thought, _to go back to a normal life after all this time …_

* * *

Now, however, as he turned to Odahviing at last, and the scarlet dragon wordlessly produced the letter it had dutifully carried to him, Grimnir found that prospect of a normal life slowly evaporating with every word that had been scrawled upon the parchment.

The penmanship had been the first sign something was wrong. He'd seen enough of its owner to know how the man wrote. Certainly not this illegibly, so that made him suspect Varulf had been in a hurry to write him this letter. The letter itself was the next sign; the sheer lack of length was just as troubling—and more than a little annoying. It sounded as though Varulf expected him to know from the beginning what this "Crimson Ship" was supposed to be.

" _Wuth veysun_ ," said Odahviing, " _ahrk wuth zoor_. A ship, its sailors stricken with deadly _krasaar_ , but turned away from salvation until all were dead— _vodahmaan_ on every day save one."

It only took a few minutes longer for the dragon to explain the legend associated with the Knahaten Flu—something that Grimnir recognized this time, from a number of the books he'd sampled in Urag's Arcanaeum.

Immediately, he knew that this could not possibly be handled by one person alone—not even by a mage of Winterhold. Two, however …

"Wait here," he said to Odahviing, before sprinting down the stairs of the College.

He found the target of his search almost immediately after, grumbling darkly under her breath as she often did. She was walking in a slump—her hazel eyes, sharpened with age, carving a trench into the floor before her. She failed to look where she was going, and so collided with Grimnir at the precise moment he'd thrown open the door to the Hall of the Elements.

"Do watch where you're going— _oh!_ " Colette Marence, the master instructor of restoration at Winterhold, quickly picked herself up from the floor and dusted off her robes while apologizing profusely to Grimnir.

The Arch-Mage, however, waved it off. "Never mind that now," he said hurriedly, keeping his voice quiet so as not to further disturb the pupils Tolfdir was managing in the lecture hall. "I just got handed a letter from the High King that suggests Dawnstar may be facing an outbreak of Knahaten Flu."

Colette, still apologizing, took some time to hear him. "I've had a lot on my mind," she was rambling, "ever since finding that last letter in my tea—I'm sorry, what?"

Grimnir cleared his throat, and produced the letter Odahviing had given him. "Faralda met one of Varulf's runners at the bridge earlier. He was carrying this with him, and he had every intent on giving it to me."

The instructor's eyes zoomed over the single line of writing for only a fraction of a second. Her pupils were the size of pinpricks. "Is this true?" she whispered, her voice fearful.

"We have no reason to suspect otherwise right now," Grimnir said— _nor has Varulf given me any reason to doubt my better judgment yet_ , he finished in his head. "But whether it's true or not, you're the best authority Winterhold has on every disease there is to name in Tamriel—including the Flu. I was just about to leave—but I wanted to find you first. I need you to come with me on this, Colette," he pleaded. "I can't do this alone. If it is true, and we don't any knowledge of how to treat this … then Dawnstar may be beyond saving."

He bit his lip beneath his mask, and added as an afterthought, "The next time you get any letters saying restoration isn't a necessary skill in learning magic … you can remind the students about today."

Grimnir saw the Breton's lips tighten, and her breathing became slower, more measured, as she tended to do when trying to calm herself.

Then, she finally exhaled. "I'll tell Sergius to give me every filled soul gem he has. I don't care what he says back to me—he can restock whenever he wants. I can use those gems to enchant some jewelry that should help anyone to waers them to resist the disease."

Grimnir nodded. "I'll find Urag and request anything he has on the Flu. We need to be prepared for the worst—it's possible we could be over there for either a few days, or a few months. With something like this, it may be impossible to tell."

He made for his quarters, then stopped. "I'm taking Hevnoraak with me, too," he said, thinking that he might finally find a use for it besides sitting forlornly on his enchanting table. "Meet me on the topmost tower in five minutes!"

"Why there?" Colette was already at the front door.

"Odahviing's waiting for us." And with that, Grimnir swept up the stairs, leaving a suddenly pale Colette at the front door, her eyes widening as she realized the implications of how precisely they were getting to Dawnstar.

* * *

_Above Winterhold_

Five minutes after that, a still-pale restoration instructor was hugging one of Odahviing's spines like a lifeline as the crimson dragon took off into the air with a mighty bellow.

Grimnir had donned a new mask under the robes of his station for the journey ahead. The previous malachite visage of Otar, the dragon priest of Ragnvald, protected him against the elements—magickal and natural, but would not serve him here. He'd replaced it, then—though not with Morokei's moonstone face and the familiar regenerative enchantments it carried, but the rusted iron of another dragon priest—one he had slain some months ago while assisting Brelyna in one of Neloth's chores for her.

That time, she'd been tasked with extracting a fresh briar seed from the chests of those undead Bretons who led the violent Forsworn clans in the Reach. Odahviing had landed them in a foggy clearing near a Nordic ruin called Valthume so as not to attract the Forsworn's attention; while Brelyna busied herself with the briarhearts at a nearby redoubt, Grimnir had decided to pass the time by slipping inside the ruin to possibly do some exploring.

That chance had faded almost immediately as soon as he'd seen the ghost appear in the vestibule of the ruin; from there, Grimnir had learned of the danger that slept within the ruin, and was perilously close to awakening: the lich called Hevnoraak, who even though long dead intended to return to Skyrim with all his horrible power.

It was a task Grimnir was reluctant to do, having already slain a dragon priest in order to save the world at least three times. But the ghost of Valthume's sole, uncorrupted watchman had been insistent, and persuaded him eventually to carry out his own plan—to resurrect Hevnoraak before the appointed time, so that he would be much weaker than he would otherwise be. The plan had worked—though only just; Hevnoraak's magic had taken such a toll on Grimnir's own that day that he'd had to spend an entire day in bed wearing Morokei's mask before he felt ready enough to cast a lightning bolt.

After Hevnoraak had been slain, Grimnir had plucked the iron mask worn by the lich from his ashes, and taken it for his own, along with his staff. Later research on both of them revealed a vast wellspring of power within the staff, far beyond the artifacts Neloth was capable of creating with the enchanter in his tower at Tel Mithryn, and second only to the Staff of Magnus itself in Grimnir's experience. Much more noteworthy, however, had been the enchantment imbued inside Hevnoraak's mask; given its age, Grimnir was certain it was the progenitor of every enchantment in existence that protected against diseases and poisons, and Tolfdir had been hounding him since to publish a paper on the discovery before some other, less scrupulous group of mages decided to get the same idea.

Because of the uniqueness of these enchantments, Grimnir was not keen on disintegrating either artifact—nor was he sure that he even could. They were thousands of years old, after all, and magic had been much more powerful in those days. But his last-minute thought to bring it along had stemmed from the possibility that it could save the people of Dawnstar, if indeed the Flu was savaging the town—and if he was right about how its enchantment worked. It might only be able to protect one person at a time, but as long as that one person still stood tall against the odds, Dawnstar might yet have hope.

Even so, it was clear Colette harbored some reservations about Grimnir's thoughts, even as he explained them to her on the way.

"Most immunity enchantments are only designed to work on the common diseases!" the Breton had to shout over the shrieking wind, her voice muffled through layers upon layers of cloth to protect against both the cold and the possibility of infection. Grimnir, too, was similarly buried in more clothes than he'd ever worn at one time; neither mage showed an inch of skin to the biting cold. "Ataxia, the Rattles, Brain Rot—we know how to cure those, and so we know how to protect against them!"

"But a cure was never found for the Flu, was there?" Grimnir hollered back, and Colette nodded.

"In other words, we're going in blind!" she yelled, patting the bulging bag she'd hitched in a knot around another of Odahviing's spines. "We're lucky Sergius was so well stocked on soul gems! I wish he'd had more grand and greater gems, though—the better quality gem we have, the better chance we have of protecting against this Flu!"

She reached in her pocket suddenly with some difficulty, extracting a simple silver amulet. "Put this on," she told him. "I had a couple of these lying around—they'll give full immunity to any disease we can protect against! Your mask is probably stronger, but every bit of protection we have will help! I just wish we had more amulets like them, or I would have brought those with me, too!"

"We'll ask if the local smith can help you out there!" Grimnir suggested, quickly clasping the amulet around his neck before the buffeting winds could blow it out of his palm. "I'll talk with the court wizard and see if we can't get any more gems to use as well! And while I'm thinking about it—"

He closed his single eye quickly, and ripped off Hevnoraak's mask, biting his scarred lip until the blood flowed as the icy winds ripped into his ravaged face. Grimnir held the mask tightly, accepting the pain, extending it to Colette while at the same time reaching for the mask of Morokei in his satchel.

"I want _you_ to wear Hevnoraak for right now, Colette!" Grimnir roared, once the numbness had faded away from his face. "You're the better healer out of both of us—so if this Flu gets you, then it'll be that much harder to get rid of it! We can trade off if you need to, but for right now, it's more important that you survive as long as possible!"

Colette paused long enough to make Grimnir think she was giving him a concerned look under all her wrappings. Finally, though, the Breton nodded, and slipped on the mask with some difficulty; even with all the swaths and scarves concealing her, it was designed for a bigger face than hers.

"There's one thing that's still bothering me," she said. Her voice was even more muffled than before through the mask; Grimnir had to lean dangerously close to hear what she was saying. "You know the history of this disease, right?"

Grimnir nodded. The Knahaten Flu had first surfaced a thousand years ago in the Second Era, devastating the population of Tamriel with frightening rapidity. For over four decades, it would shape future events—wiping out the Wayrest Royal Family in High Rock, which had given way to the Daggerfall Covenant. Entire cities had been laid low in Elsweyr, forcing the Khajiit to throw in their lot with the First Aldmeri Dominion—the precursors to the Thalmor government of today. The Argonians of Black Marsh, once slaves to the Dunmer, now fought alongside them as equals after joining the Ebonheart Pact. Thus, the cornerstone for the Alliance War had been laid,

"Well, there's some who think the Knahaten Flu wasn't _actually_ a disease," Colette continued, "but that it was a power play by the Argonians, instead. They were immune to the Flu, you see, and the _official_ historical record says that the plague began in Black Marsh and spread from there."

"You don't sound like you believe that," Grimnir said, noting the skepticism in her voice.

Colette sighed, almost unheard over the wind. "I don't think anyone will ever know the truth of how it happened," she said. "On the one hand, that plague was almost the perfect storm; it severed Black Marsh from control of the Empire by making it all but uninhabitable to anyone except for the Argonians. On the other, it struck at the worst possible time—the Interregnum," she clarified, referring to that period of time widely considered as the "dark ages" of Tamriel, when intellectualism and general living standards had taken a noticeable turn for the worst.

"Most historical records of that time wouldn't even hold a candle to professional scrutiny today," Colette continued. "A lot of them were grounded in popular opinion, and not a whole lot else. There were a scant few who thought the Flu was a natural occurrence, but for the most part, people believed that the Argonians were behind it all. At any rate, though, neither party was fool enough to venture into Black Marsh and find out for themselves, given how devastating the Flu was. They even said Tiber Septim himself didn't go into those swamps without thinking twice."

Grimnir pondered this. "So … we either have a devastating plague, or a biological weapon—both of which may well be the deadliest of their kind yet seen in Tamriel," he said. "What do you think would be the better approach? How should we treat this?"

It was a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don't situation in Grimnir's opinion, and apparently Colette had been thinking the same thing. The Breton was deep in thought for what felt like hours.

"Honestly?" she finally answered him. "I think we should err on the side of caution for right now. If it is Knahaten Flu, we'll treat it as a disease outbreak until we have the chance to learn more about it. Dawnstar merits more attention—but as soon as we've treated enough of its townspeople that they can handle themselves from there, we can concentrate on finding out _how_ the Flu found its way into their town in the first place."

"Agreed." Grimnir turned to face forward as they passed over the island where rested the ruins of Yngvild. "Dawnstar should be just over that ridge in the distance," he said, pointing left so that Colette could see. The parapets of a ruined fortress were just barely visible past the tip of his finger. "Odahviing, I want you to do a flyover of the town when we get there. Circle around once, low and slow enough so that people can see who we are—but high and fast enough so that if somebody panics anyway and raises the alarm, we'll be out of harm's way until we land.

Odahviing dipped his head in acknowledgement, and adjusted his course slightly south.

"Circle around the town once," Grimnir went on, "then land on top of that tower I pointed out earlier." This way, Grimnir now explained, he'd be able to get his bearings, scout the town and the surrounding area for any spots that might prove potentially problematic. It was entirely possible that if the Flu had hit Dawnstar bad enough, they would have to evacuate the entire town—in which case, they would need to find potential shelters, then clear the way there so efforts could proceed without a hitch. Additionally—even though Odahviing, being a dragon, could not die from any disease or plague—there was no guarantee he still couldn't harbor the Flu and spread it elsewhere. Keeping him here ensured a twofold purpose: that he remained well away from any chance of contracting the plague, and that he could also protect Dawnstar from any outside threat that wished to take advantage of its plight.

" _Geh, thuri_ ," Odahviing said. Moments later, Grimnir and Colette felt the winds begin to buffet them less as the crimson dragon slowed down. The bay of Dawnstar slowly began to creep into view—and with each passing moment, Grimnir could feel the pressure in his chest become heavier and heavier as the trepidation swallowed him whole.

He might have been much more stressed if he'd known that at that precise moment, someone was watching them.


	5. IV

IV

That _someone_ was not entirely human, but then again, not so _in_ human as to be monstrous in its appearance. No one could know for sure, nor was it likely anyone ever would; the risk of a slow, painful, and certain death was too great. Even discounting this, there was also the superstition that had arisen around the vessel on which that _someone_ stood, whose creaking planks and torn sails exuded that same death like an evil stench—or, perhaps, a silent spirit who kept eternal watch over the ship, punishing anyone who dared to uncover whatever dire secret it might carry within its hull.

The true name of the vessel had been lost to time centuries ago—there were none alive who could remember such an obscure piece of history, and the name it had gained in the years since was the only recognition it would ever need. Even the being who commanded it knew precious little of this ship; it simply guarded its secrets too well. Likewise, the dragon that was currently hovering into view would know precious little. Though they were much older than even this ship—indeed, quite literally as old as time—such trivial things lay beneath that proud species; they cared little for names save for those they bestowed on themselves and others like them.

The faintly discernable figure on top of the dragon, however, was a different story—to the commander's knowledge, no dragon in existence had even been so humbled as to let themselves be mounted like some common horse. It did not matter, however; she had ensured that even these ancient beasts could not assault this ship, let alone a mortal being—whether or not they could command a dragon at all.

As the beast and its rider continued to draw closer, the commander became aware of a sudden noise: a low, long moan, initially indistinguishable from the shuddering noises of the red-stained timbers, then building into a sepulchral wail that sent a spine-tingling chill through even the commander—which was a sight to see in and of itself, even if no one else was around to see it. It lasted for roughly ten, fifteen seconds—before gradually dying down into a piteous groaning noise, melding once again with the sounds of the ship.

_Again?_

The commander glided belowdecks, navigating the companionway with ease. Within seconds, the source of the noise soon came into view—the heart of the ship, so to speak. It was clearly agitated—perhaps it, too, had sensed the dragon the commander had seen merely moments ago. Such an awesome creature would indeed be a threat—but the dragons, again, cared little for anything that did not directly concern them. For this reason, therefore, they wouldn't trouble themselves with the half-rotted remains of a thousand-year-old ship, and the commander instinctively relaxed.

A faint smile appeared, and she caressed the half-rotted, decaying timbers of a ship that still lived and breathed. She stared longingly at the object of her interests, knowing that it could feel every touch she made upon the rude wood.

As another somber moan echoed throughout the vessel, whispered words—of a language that had not been heard in near a millennium, whose meaning only she could divine—floated up from her core, and appeared upon her lips. She began to sing softly to the ship as if to a lover, continuing to stroke its crimson planks like she was fondling her very own child:

_Mirror, mirror,_

_Canst thou see,_

_Mirror, mirror,_

_Stand with me …_

Slowly, as though the commander's lullaby carried some unknown magic within its words, the dismal whine faded away, until it was lost beneath the sound of the waves that slapped against the creaking hull. Soon, a lonely silence reigned aboard the ship—as it once had for so many centuries—but still she continued to caress the wood, as though determined to touch every inch of its length and breath with the nails of her pale fingers.

Inside her mind, she still continued to sing:

_Mirror, mirror,_

_This day of shame,_

_Send them all_

_To Oblivion's flame._

* * *

_Above the Pale_

"So this is the Crimson Ship, then?"

If Colette heard Grimnir's muttered observation, she did not show it—not that the Arch-Mage could blame her; to look upon such a blood-spattered piece of Tamriel's history was not something that happened every day. Though he could not see Colette's face under Hevnoraak, the iron mask did not waver even an inch from the vessel anchored outside the bay that the town of Dawnstar had been built around, even as Odahviing glided over it.

"I remember hearing the stories about it, when I grew up in High Rock," Colette murmured as she gazed at the ship, almost unheard over the wind. "A part of me was hoping they'd be just that. To see it with my own eyes … "

"Let's hope that's the closest we'll have to get to it," Grimnir said, giving the sight one last look before motioning to his steed. "All right, Odahviing. Someone down there in Dawnstar is bound to have seen us by now. Drop down so they can get a good luck at the three of us—hopefully that should stop anyone from raising a panic." _These people have had enough of_ that _already_ , he added to himself.

Odahviing dipped his head again in silent agreement. Seconds later, he angled his wings into a controlled descent, and Dawnstar slowly began to grow under them.

As his steed curved through the sky, Grimnir pointed out something else to Colette. "No guards," he said. "The entire town looks deserted." A frown crossed his concealed face. "Maybe they already evacuated?"

Colette took the time to glance downward at the town below them for a moment before she spoke. "I'm not so sure that they did. If the entire town had evacuated, then we'd have seen the signs of it—horse prints in the snow, cart tracks, and things like that. Besides, that snowstorm we flew through never made it this far west—so it couldn't have wiped away any traces of where they might have gone. As far as we know, they never left. Maybe a few of them _could_ have taken their chances on foot—but if this really is the Knahaten Flu … "

She exhaled, and let the silent implications sink in.

"The only question is," said Grimnir, as the temple he'd pointed out to Odahviing loomed nearer, "is there enough left of Dawnstar to evacuate at all?"

Colette did not answer. That was enough for the Arch-Mage.

"Fair enough," he said. "We make treating the town our top priority. Once we've got a plan of action, and once we've taken care of enough of the townsfolk for Dawnstar to get back up on its feet, we'll deal with this Crimson Ship. I think I know how I can do that—but I may need your help on that end, Odahviing."

" _Zu'u fen hon, thuri_." A grin could barely be seen on the crimson steed's jaws. "Make ready— _mu dah wah golt_."

Grimnir instinctively grabbed hold of one of Odahviing's spines. "Here's what I need you to do … "

* * *

_Dawnstar_

"No, honey," Seren was saying in the meantime to Rustleif as he approached the pot for what must have been the third time in the past hour. "This batch is going to need at least another hour before it's heated up enough."

The Redguard was hovering dangerously close to her husband as he resumed his pacing about their house—only a few feet away, but that was enough for Rustleif to get anxious about his wife standing so closely to the one thing in Dawnstar that might help save their town—or at least, keep enough of them from dying that there would still be a Dawnstar when the College arrived to assist them. Hopefully.

But distance—whether a few feet or a few hundred miles—mattered little when your loved ones had been the latest to fall under the taint of the most horrific disease Tamriel had seen in nigh on a thousand years. That one of those loved ones had taken it upon herself to help as many people in Dawnstar as possible before learning that she'd been infected had made the awful news that much harder to stomach. The worst blow of all, though, was that the baby had been responsible for infecting her in the first place.

In that first hour since learning the horrid truth, Seren had been inconsolable; the moment she had seen the telltale red rash of the Knahaten Flu spreading across her breast, she'd hastily covered herself up, grabbed Makela, and disappeared into the baby's room. She refused to come out for any reason, not even to eat—which had left Rustleif to deliver the waiting batch of chicken broth to the residents of Dawnstar, spooning it out into crude wooden bowls for men and women, young and old—all of whom looked so wrapped up in their dirty scraps of cloth that they might as well be _draugr_ already.

The sight had chilled the Nord to the bone in a way that even the welcome warmth of the broth could not hope to soothe. On his trek back home, therefore, he'd kept on walking even after he'd stepped through the door. Rustleif had only paused twice: the first time to listen to the muffled sobbing of Seren in her room as she continued to cradle their sick daughter, and the second time to ready the next batch of saving broth for the townsfolk to drink.

Since then, Rustleif felt as though he was a puppet on strings, forced by some divine hand to walk from one end of the house to the other, a thousand times on end. Each lap he'd made felt like a nail being cruelly thrust into him, reminding him of what he'd done—for he'd blamed himself for the state of Seren and Makela in the first place.

 _I should waited for her to stop nursing before we left_ , he'd thought through hot tears, over and over again. Makela had been in danger the moment Seren had stepped outside with her, Rustleif now knew; the baby's exposed skin must have come into contact with the Flu from there, and while she continued to suckle at her mother's breast, she'd transmitted the disease to Seren herself.

Rustleif did not know how long he'd been pacing when Seren finally came out of Makela's room, her body fully wrapped up again, so he could not tell how long it had been since she'd stopped crying. She'd changed the baby after feeding her, Seren told him (in a hollow, wooden voice that made the nails in Rustleif's insides twist further still), and put her back in her basket so that she could sleep. That had been roughly ten minutes ago, now, she'd come back out after briefly checking to see how Makela was doing—and noticed Rustleif making another beeline for the bubbling pot in the fireplace.

"We have to let this boil for at least _two_ hours," she was saying to him. "Not only does that help the broth go down better, but it also gets rid of anything that might make these people even sicker."

Rustleif knew she had a point there; who was to say the chickens that were being slaughtered every day so that he could keep on making this broth weren't themselves getting sick with the Knahaten Flu? Then again, though, who was to say it wouldn't make a difference?

"I just don't know what else I can do, though," he said to Seren, slumping into a nearby chair for the first time in what felt like all day, while his wife continued to hover around him. "I can't go outside to work on Skald's sword"— _how trivial a matter that seemed now!_ he thought bitterly to himself—"and I can't well comfort my own wife and child, either—even though they could be dead by sundown!"

" _Don't you dare say that!_ " Seren punctuated her outburst with a stamp of her swaddled foot—which was mitigated somewhat by a hissed intake of breath as she clutched at her leg. There was a few tense moments of silence.

"We're going to make sure no one else has to die from this sickness," she eventually said, her voice quieter, hardly audible over the pot of broth that continued to bubble in the kitchen. "I've had my time to grieve for myself—and for Makela—but I still won't give up hope. I bore our child into the world, Rustleif. _I will not be the one to bury her in it_."

A part of Rustleif noted the clenched teeth through which Seren delivered that vow—but the rest of him had already risen to his feet. "Seren, you're already sick," he protested. "There's nothing more you can do! I know you don't like being cooped up at home when there are sick people to take care of, but I have to do this myself now! If something were to happen—"

But he could not force the words out of his throat. "Until the College of Winterhold comes to Dawnstar," he said, pointing to the pot, "that broth is the town's only hope of survival—and even then, it's only to keep us on our feet long enough until they do. If the pot carried the Flu with it because you weren't careful enough—"

"I know what I'm doing!" Seren said heatedly. "No one in this town knows more than me about the history of my people and this awful plague! I want to help these sick people because I want to make amends for what my ancestors did in those days—how they ignored those dying sailors simply because they didn't want to die either! _None_ of them wanted to take the risk—none of them wanted to put their best foot forward to be a hero!"

Rustleif sighed. "Seren, that was a thousand years ago. No one could possibly hold a grudge against your people for that long!"

"This isn't about a grudge anymore!" shouted the Redguard.

"Is that it, then?" Rustleif asked, approaching his wife. "Are you just trying to play the hero you think Hammerfell should have had a thousand years ago?! This is no time for make-believe, Seren! We're not kids anymore—we can't afford to get lost in our own little fantasy world just because we don't think we're doing enough!"

"Rustleif—"

But the Nord waved her off. "The fact is, you _have_ done enough, Seren. I've learned a lot by watching you cook this—I can pull my own weight in helping this town _and_ our family at the same time! But I can't do it while you're hovering over my shoulder, always wanting a chance to help me—even if I don't need it!"

He took a breath, ignoring that the Redguard had drawn herself to her full height, stiff as a board and very silent indeed—even with the plague that was inside her body. "For the Nine's sake, Seren, please trust me on this one," Rustleif said. "Don't do any more than you have to—if you try and do too much while you're sick with this Flu, then you're going to work yourself to death _before it even has a chance to kill you_!"

The words echoed strangely throughout the walls of the tiny house, and for a moment the only sound that could be heard was the sound of the crackling flames as they licked the pot full of broth above them. It was only at that point that Rustleif noticed how quiet Seren had become, and how still she was standing—and the weight of what he'd said suddenly registered.

"I'm sorry," he said, bowing his wrapped head. "I went too far—I shouldn't have said that at all." He moved to embrace her, but thought better of it, and returned to his chair to watch the pot continue to boil.

He did not know how long he remained there—it might have been seconds, perhaps entire hours. All he knew was that he'd seen a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye, and Seren had squatted down next to him, mere inches away. Instinctively, Rustleif shied back in his seat—partially on account of the fact that he'd just shouted at the woman he loved, partially because that woman was probably sick enough by now that touching her wouldn't be a good idea anyway—no matter how much Rustleif wanted to embrace her and apologize for what he'd said to her.

He need not have worried, though. "I don't blame you, dearest," Seren said, her concealed face gazing at the fire. "I know I was working hard for all of today—but the fact that I've got to sit back and watch from now on … it _pisses me off_ ," she suddenly spat, causing Rustleif to do a double take at his wife—she hadn't used that sort of language in the house ever since Makela had been born. "It's just … can you imagine having to go through all the trouble of making a plan to save your town—your _home_ —only to have it all be for nothing in the end?"

Rustleif slowly nodded. "Aye. Like I said, I'm sorry I shouted at you. Bad enough when it's a Jarl who's on your back for deadlines about a single sword," he huffed, "but having the weight of an entire town on your shoulders? That's even tougher—and it's why I love you as much as I do," he said genuinely to Seren, looking at her in the eye—or at least, as much as the cloth strips around their faces would let them. "You can shoulder weights that I could never even _dare_ to lift. You can be a hero in ways that I could _never be_."

Seren's posture slowly relaxed; though Rustleif could not see his face, he imagined that she was smiling at the compliments, and again he dearly wished she was alive and well so that he could see that smile again.

The poignant moment was broken at that moment, however, by the cries of Makela, barely audible through the walls that separated her room from the living room. "It doesn't matter if you end up saving every one of us in Dawnstar, or just _one_ of us," Rustleif said, nodding pointedly to the bedroom door, "but I will _always_ call you my hero."

And he slowly embraced his wife, no longer caring whether or not the fabric would protect him from the onslaught of the Flu. He felt Seren tense up a little beneath his arms, then slowly melt into him.

"Thank you," he heard the Redguard say, even though there were no words needed for this moment. Then—against all odds—she laughed. "You should probably let me go sometime soon, Rustleif—Makela needs her hero."

"That she does," Rustleif smiled back. "I'll keep an eye on the broth while you tend to her."

Seren, nodded, although she waited inside her husband's embrace for a moment longer before Makela's whines finally tore her away, and she disappeared into the bedroom, allowing Rustleif to hear the baby for a few moments while the door was open.

But something was wrong, Rustleif soon noticed. When the door closed, Makela's crying should have been muffled once more—but instead, he was hearing the whining noises just as loudly as if she was in the same room.

And was it his imagination … or was her crying getting deeper in pitch and tone?

No, a tiny part of his mind thought—the only part of Rustleif that hadn't suddenly turned icy with dread. It wasn't _crying_ he was hearing.

It was _roaring_.

 _Nine, take me now …_ His entire body seemed to have gone numb inside and out. _On top of this damnable plague, they'd add on to our woes even more?!_

In an instant—forgetting all about the simmering pot, and the disease that had stricken his wife and child, the Nord had barged into the bedroom after them with a ferocity that belied his age; a desire possessed by many fathers—and even more mothers—to keep their family safe.

"Get to the cellar and close the door—now!" he growled at a terrified Seren—right as a deafening gust of wind, horribly familiar to the family after so many near misses in the past, _whooshed_ over the roof. "It's a dragon attack!"

And sure enough, an earsplitting roar echoed the skies, drowning Makela out completely as her cries grew into a shriek of her own. Seren's head had whipped upward— _the noise had sounded as though it was right above them!_ —and even Rustleif felt his knees knocking as he imagined the devastation a dragon could bring to a town too wrecked by disease to even raise arms against it.

He herded Seren out of her bedroom—Makela in the Redguard's arms—and into the spare room of the house, where rested a tiny trap door barely wide enough to admit one person at a time. Such features were common in a house these days, especially in ones that would barely stand up to the all-consuming flames of those great beasts. The simplest of them—including the one Rustleif had put in his house—was little more than a earthen pit and a few holes to the outside world so as to allow them to breathe, even in the midst of the carnage around them, and stocked with a few days' worth of supplies, enough to last until they were found.

Rustleif had dug the hole himself, using his pa's old shovel—pulling out the stones and roots in his way with little more than his aging fingers and the muscles he'd gained in the blacksmith's trade. The result was ten feet square, padded with a primitive bedroll of cloth and straw large enough for the three of them.

As he gently laid Seren onto this bedroll—taking extreme care to not overly jostle Makela as the baby clung to her mother—he kept an ear cocked to the ceiling above them, closing the trap door as he did so.

But he heard no sign of the dragon laying waste to its surroundings—no explosions of fire or frost, no screams of panicked civilians. In fact, he could not even hear the dragon roaring at all—

 _No_. There it was: a low, bellowing noise—but it was farther away than he'd expected. Had they gotten lucky? Rustleif wondered as he exchanged a worried glance with his wife. Had the dragon simply passed over them, in search of bigger and better prey than a sick and dying town?

Or was it simply biding its time?

* * *

_Nightcaller Temple_

Unbeknownst to the consternation they had caused in the house some distance away, Grimnir and Collete had dismounted from Odahviing, who flew up to the pinnacle of the fortress, where he gracefully alighted on the weathered stone and looked out to sea—just as Grimnir had instructed him to do before they'd made their landing.

Almost immediately after both mages had set their boots in the snow, however, pandemonium erupted: apparently the fort where they'd chosen to make their landing had been deserted for some time, judging by the trio of frost trolls shambling towards them, grunting and growling in an obvious territorial challenge. All three eyes of the beast in the lead were staring straight at Grimnir—and already the beast was raising a hairy white fist, ready to pound his prey to a pulp.

" _Yol … Toor SHUL_!" Grimnir roared in response, expelling a vast column of fire from Morokei's mouth. The troll had no chance to turn back; the Shout hit it full in the chest right as its fist had begun to swing downward. A harsh, burning smell soon settled over the hillside; it was all that remained of the luckless beast. This did not appear to faze the remaining two trolls, however—perhaps they were simply too stupid to realize that they were up against a pair of mages from Winterhold—master-level mages, no less.

Even as the remains of the first troll settled on the hillside, Colette was sending a stream of sparks at one of the others from one hand. The electricity raked the troll's ugly face every which way; one of its eyes burst as an arc of magic sliced across it, and it howled in a combination of rage and pain as it swiped at the Breton, who nimbly dodged away from the attack with scant inches to spare. With her free hand, Colette quickly conjured a portal to Oblivion, whereupon a slim, graceful flame atronach emerged to promptly engage her foe.

Grimnir, meanwhile, was in no mood to toy around. The first blast of his own lightning magic had hit the third troll right in the groin, perforating the beast straight through its spine. The troll toppled face-first into the snow, paralyzed from the waist down, but its arms continued to flail helplessly at its perceived prey until two more thunderbolts—one to each shoulder—blew them right out of their sockets.

By the time the severed limbs had landed some twenty feet away—in opposite directions—Colette had already dispatched the third troll. It was already blinded and bleeding—the beast's three eyes were nothing more than a mass of reddish-black pulp in their sockets—but her flame atronach finally finished the job with a pair of well-aimed firebolts: one to the chest, another to the face. The troll's body rolled down the hillside, leaving a trail of blood and an even more disgusting smell than the first casualty.

Colette smelled it, too, and gagged. "Ugh—you'd think these dragon priests would've enchanted their masks to keep them from smelling their own dead bodies," she commented, waving a hand over Hevnoraak's face.

"Odahviing probably won't mind, though," Grimnir replied as the two resumed their journey towards Dawnstar. And indeed, the red dragon seemed to have sniffed the awful odor from up on high, and dived down from his perch just long enough to grab one of the trolls in his jaws, before launching himself back to the top of the temple to feast on his meal.

* * *

The town of Dawnstar was built in a U-shape, along the rough, rocky beach of the inlet that made it one of Skyrim's three port cities—and the smallest of the trio by a country mile. The residents of the town lived less than a stone's throw from the lapping waves of the bay; the more important buildings, like the tavern, the guard barracks, and the Jarl's keep, were situated further away, on an outcropping of rock behind the beach—and below a sheer precipice of rock and ice that rose some two hundred feet into the air at its highest, where the ruined fortress called Nightcaller Temple had been built for whatever purpose it might have served, then sloping downward like a descending bird to the western edge of the town proper, where its unofficial entrance was situated.

It was along this precipice that Grimnir and Colette made their way to Dawnstar; they had decided against Odahviing landing in the center of town so as not to disturb the populace—who, if indeed they were sick with Knahaten Flu, had quite enough problems to worry about without an incoming dragon, Colette had reasoned. The cliffs were too risky to risk a descent on foot, and so they had been swiftly discarded as a shortcut. Fortunately, however, the snow beneath their feet was worn enough in places that Grimnir knew it must be a route to the town, and so he and the Breton had started their journey from there, leaving Odahviing to his disgusting meal.

After about five minutes' worth of trekking through the snowy path, Grimnir and Colette had reached the "main gate" of Dawnstar. It was not a gate at all, of course—only nothing more than a length of fence that turned a corner at one point to enclose a very small plot of farmland.

Here, however, the mages found a surprise waiting for them: a group of Stormcloak guards, six in all, who appeared to be standing guard either side of the road that led into Dawnstar. Like most guards of the province, their heads were completely concealed by the cone-like helms they wore, and Grimnir noticed that not a single inch of flesh had been exposed. He also saw that several of their wooden shields carried a four-pointed star—the sigil of the Pale, used by the guards who patrolled this hold. It had fallen out of favor ever since the conclusion of the Stormcloak uprising, being largely replaced by the crude but portable hide, or the slightly more superior iron or steel that was often used by their soldiers.

A pair of guards noticed Grimnir and Colette making their way towards them. Quick as a flash, they drew their swords, and advanced on the pair of mages. "Hold there!" one of them shouted. "This city's off-limits to visitors! Orders from Jarl Skald!"

Colette stepped forward, giving Grimnir a brief look that—even under the heavy iron mask of Hevnoraak—plainly said _let me handle this_. "I am Colette Marence, Master of Restoration at the College of Winterhold—and Grimnir Torn-Skull, _Arch-Mage_ of Winterhold and Thane of Whiterun! We are here under special dispensation from Varulf Blackmane, Harbinger of the Companions and High King of Skyrim!"

She said all this in a loud, clear voice that showed little fear of the sword points aimed in her direction. The guards brandishing those swords, meanwhile, had begun to exchange looks, while the others within earshot of Colette's greeting were muttering amongst themselves.

"You are with the Dragonborn?" One of the guards—seemingly the commander of the lot—lowered his blade, and his companion did the same. When Colette nodded: "You were not expected until tomorrow at the earliest. It is a long way from here to Winterhold."

"We were given to understand time was of the essence," Grimnir said, sweeping a hand backwards towards the distant tower where they'd landed. Odahviing was still visible amongst the low-hanging clouds; occasionally, his crimson wings would flap once or twice at the air around them, displaying his scaled bulk for all to see.

"I see," said the guard, turning away from them and beckoning them to follow him. "Well, you'd be right about that. Bad situation this town's in. Jarl Skald sent a hawk out to Fort Dunstad early this morning. Told every able-bodied soldier what called himself a son or daughter of Skyrim to seal off the roads that led to the city. No one in or out, so we've been told—save for the pair of you. He sent hawks to the surrounding holds, too: Whiterun to the south, Solitude to the west, Windhelm to the east—even Winterhold, so I heard—told every town to bolster their border patrols so as not to let any travelers into the Pale."

"He closed the borders of his own hold?!" Colette said incredulously. "It sounds like he's declared martial law! Why would he do that?"

Grimnir had to agree with her—this was a drastic action Skald had taken. Even the ax of Knahaten Flu that was hanging over the collective head of his town was surely not enough to warrant the Jarl of Dawnstar going this far.

They crossed into Dawnstar proper. The sheer silence that emanated from the town was unnerving to Grimnir—all he could hear was the persistent lapping of the waves against the shoreline.

"Whatever this sickness the town's been having," said the guard, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "it's killed off most of his guard. What's left of them are all in the town barracks now, trying to recover from this disease—but from what I've been hearing, it's turning into a charnel house. So many of them are dying that … "

He shivered, and did not finish his sentence. There was no need to, though, as a second look exchanged between Grimnir and Colette told them both that the Pale guard had let on more than he realized he'd been telling them.

 _Skald hadn't told them that Dawnstar was sick with the Knahaten Flu_. Why this was, neither mage could fathom; perhaps he was skeptical that such a deadly disease had returned after being gone for so long. If that was the case, Grimnir reasoned, then why go to such lengths to keep everyone from entering or leaving his hold, so as not to catch the sickness themselves, and risk spreading it to the four corners of Skyrim—and possibly even beyond?

Or perhaps Skald did indeed know that his town was being ravaged by a serious plague—and simply was unable or unwilling to find hard evidence that this was the Flu. Either was a likely answer—the Jarl of Dawnstar was known for being a notoriously prickly person to stay around for very long. Obstinate and blunt, Skald had been a staunch supporter of Ulfric even before the former Jarl of Windhelm's uprising—and he was deeply critical of anyone who did not share in his black-and-white sense of the world around him.

They passed the tavern of the town—a building whose creaky sign revealed the faded letters "Windpeak Inn". It sounded deadly silent—as though no one was inside it at all. "Where is Skald now?" Grimnir asked.

"Inside the White Hall," replied the guard, "along with his housecarl. The court mage—Madena—and Frida in charge of the Mortar and Pestle have been the only people allowed in or out of the place since the Jarl sent out his messenger hawks. I've heard he's even barred himself from leaving his own hall—just because he wants to avoid getting sick."

"As opposed to the rest of the town?" Colette's query came through clenched teeth; she sounded less and less pleased with Skald's decision-making by the second.

"He's left that to Madena and Frida—I'm given to understand they and a couple more of the townsfolk have been trying to do their best to treat the rest of the city. Not sure how much good it'll do, considering—"

The guard broke off here, coughing slightly. "Sorry. Stench takes a little while to get used to."

"What stench—?"

But it hit Grimnir before he could finish his question. The smell was easily the most ghastly thing that had invaded his nostrils in a long time—including all the nightmarish events he'd been through the previous year. It hit him like a dragon at full speed—within seconds he'd dropped to one knee, retching through Morokei and breathing heavily.

Colette fared little better; her experience as a healer meant that she could still stand up to the onslaught of the awful odor, but it was plain that she was no less nauseated at it than the Arch-Mage.

"What in the name of Julianos is that _smell?!_ " she demanded.

The guard thumbed towards the building they were passing—a squarish, two-story building that was half made of stone and half of wood. "The guard barracks," he said simply. "It's where the worst of the guards are being kept. Everyone inside that building is infected with the plague. No one's allowed inside without covering up like we are—no exposed skin at all—and anything you're wearing has to be either burned or boiled to clean it up."

"Wait a minute," Colette said. "You're just keeping them in there? No one's even trying to treat their illness?!"

"People _are_ trying," said the guard, as the White Hall came into view, "but there's so few in the town who can that they're spread way too thin as it is. Only three people in this entire place have been trying to heal them—and that's nothing to do with nobody wanting to, it's that they're the only ones who know how!"

"Well, I'm glad we could come along to help." Hevnoraak, thankfully, muffled Colette's words enough that the acid tone in them was slightly diminished.

Suddenly, she stopped. "Grimnir?"

For the Arch-Mage had stopped in his tracks, gazing at the guard barracks. He seemed to be deep in thought.

Before Colette could get his attention any further, however, she heard him whisper three Words: " _Laas … yah nir_."

The Breton was no expert at the dragon language, but she knew enough to understand that Grimnir had uttered a Shout: a series of three Words of Power that commanded the ancient magic of the Thu'um—the Voice that all Nords carried, but which very few could wield, and fewer still master.

"Colette," Grimnir spoke suddenly. "Do you see anything?" His eyes had not wavered from the barracks one bit.

The master of restoration followed his gaze, confused. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"Do you see anything?" Grimnir asked again. "Any _one_?"

And suddenly Colette understood what he was asking. She exhaled, gathering a quantity of alteration magic in her gloved hand. The Breton let it flow over her body, up past her neck and face, and finally into her eyes, where the energy concentrated itself into a special scrye that would let her—

She let loose a small gasp. She could not see anything—or anyone—inside that building.

"No," she said simply, shaking her head in reply to Grimnir—feeling the awful truth sink in.

Grimnir waved her aside. "Then you'd best stand back," he said—and before the guards knew what he was about to do, he'd hunkered down, taken a deep breath—and Shouted.

" _Yol … Toor_ _ **SHUL!**_ "

Scarcely had the last Word left his mouth when the inferno rushed out of Morokei's mask for the second time today. This time, it did not wash over the stinking flesh and flea-bitten hair of a troll—but wood and stone, flesh and armor. The support beams of the barracks were vaporized in the fiery breath of Grimnir's Shout, causing the wooden deck above them to collapse to the ground, where it, too, burst into flames, blocking the door—which itself began to smolder from the fire.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Colette heard the guard roar, but she knew it was already too late—in more ways than one. The flames were already licking the thatched roof of the barracks within seconds. In less than a minute, the entire building was ablaze.

Then—without warning—a loud _WHUMP_ detonated from inside the barracks, and a massive column of fire and smoke exploded from the burning building. What little remained of the roof now fell in on itself, and the whole second story of the barracks went with it. Colette thought she saw a long, thin shape toppling into the raging inferno—exactly as long and thin as the average human body.

"Seize them!" the guard bellowed, oblivious to what she had seen. "Seize them both!"

But the damage had already been done, Colette knew, even as she felt the rough hands of the guard's subordinates binding her; a grunt from Grimnir told her that several guards were doing the same to him. _The damage has already been done_ , she repeated in her head; there was nothing that could have been done.

All that remained was to find out if things would get better from here … or worse.

* * *

The guard holding Grimnir's wrists knocked three times upon the door of the White Hall. "Who is it?" someone asked—a female, by the sound of it.

"The Dragonborn and his companion for the Jarl!" barked the guard in reply. "And you'd better be snappy about it—they've got a hell of a lot of explaining to do to old Skald for what they just did!"

There was silence from the other side of the door. Then, Grimnir heard the prolonged sounds of what sounded like a large amount of furniture being pushed aside— _had Skald barricaded the doors?_ he wondered. _What good would that do against a plague—let alone the Knahaten Flu?_ He exchanged a look with Colette; she merely looked his confusion, shrugging at him imperceptibly before hissing in discomfort at the grip of the guards holding her.

Then the doors opened, and Grimnir had his first look at who he assumed must be the court mage of Dawnstar: a small, slender figure not unlike Colette—likely another Breton, too, he suspected. Every inch of the woman had been wrapped head to toe in various shades and states of whole cloth, over which she'd donned the navy robe and cowl that signified her station.

"Madena," she introduced herself; true to his suspicion, there was a distinct Breton cadence to the woman's words. "I'm the resident wizard of Skald's court—if you can call it that. The man doesn't like me much; I turned down every request he made of me to fight in the Stormcloak rebellion. I did enough fighting in the Great War."

She sounded unusually bitter; clearly, Colette was not the only one who was being critical of the way Skald was reacting to the presence of the Flu in his town. "I know who you are," Madena said. "Only one person in all of Skyrim wears those robes. I'm very glad you were able to come help the people of Dawnstar, Master Torn-Skull—but I thought you wouldn't be here for a while longer?"

"We came by dragon," Grimnir grunted, jerking his head at Colette—unable to use his hands to indicate his fellow mage. "Varulf was very insistent that we come quickly."

"Dragon?" Madena peered outside, appearing to scan the sky in apparent alarm, before she uttered a quiet "ah" and subsequently relaxed. "Of course—that would explain the one we heard a few minutes ago. You gave us all a scare—this town's got enough on its plate already without having to deal with dragons and the like."

She stepped aside. "Send them in," she said to the guard. "You should get back to your posts soon—it's dangerous to stay here for very long."

"No can do," the guard said. "These mages need to answer for what they did to the barracks of Dawnstar—and all the guards who were in them!"

"What are you talking about?" Madena pushed past him, turning left—and then freezing in her tracks at the sight of the burning husk that had become the town's barracks and jail, now fully engulfed in the results of Grimnir's Shout.

"Get inside," she said. Her voice had become tight-lipped. "All of you. _Now_."

Grimnir and Colette had little choice but to let the guards shunt them into the White Hall—none too gently. Colette was being treated far less gently than he (perhaps the guards knew better than to get on his bad side? Grimnir mused) but the Breton grit her teeth and bore the rough treatment without any sign of protest.

"What's the meaning of this, Madena?!"

Only one person in all of Skyrim was grating and choleric enough to have a voice to match such a mood—and sure enough, Grimnir saw Jarl Skald the Elder—stooped, hoary, but still possessed of a fire that even the best soldiers in the Empire, however diminished it had become, would be hard-pressed to imitate.

"I thought I said no other people in this castle besides you and Frida!" Skald barked at his court wizard. "What's all this, then? And what the hell's that burning I'm smelling?"

Madena sounded as though she wished she were in the depths of Coldharbour rather than here. "It's the barracks," she replied. "The town barracks is on fire."

"What?!" Skald moved faster than Grimnir would have expected for a man of his age. He might well have made it out the door had Madena not stepped in his way.

"My Jarl, _remember_." She spoke in a hushed voice, casting a look at the guards; evidently she didn't want them to hear the truth about the disease either.

Skald, for his part, gave a low, long grunt that was the epitome of reluctance. "Eh … all right," he said eventually, jerking his head at the guards. "Get back to your posts, then. Don't want you catching cold out here."

"But, my Jarl!" the lead guard protested. "The Dragonborn burned your barracks to the ground! He has to answer for mass murder!"

"You WHAT?!" Skald thundered, inches away from Grimnir's face before he could even blink. "Those were sick guards in there—scores of them! I brought you here to heal them all—not kill them! And _you_!" He rounded on Colette. "Why didn't you stop him, eh? Had a right laugh, did you—seeing us this weak and defenseless?"

The Breton hissed under her breath, and Grimnir saw her gloved hands curl up into fists. The air between them was tense enough as it was—he had to intervene.

"There was no one in there!" he blurted out before anyone could stop him. "Everyone inside that building was _already dead_!"

The outburst was followed by one of the loudest silences the Arch-Mage had ever experienced. He and Skald stood there, looking one another in the eye—neither man wavering or backing down from the other. Then:

"Out," Skald said, jerking his head at the guards again. His voice was low, growly. The guards seemed to take this as a sign to heed his word, and left the White Hall without any sign of acknowledgement at their Jarl—or indeed, any word amongst themselves. Colette sighed in relief, rubbing at her wrists where the guards had been holding her.

"Explain," said the Jarl of the Pale, this time to Grimnir—and the single word did not invite debate. The Arch-Mage knew he had to explain himself as best he could without rousing Skald's anger. Already he was wondering if he'd done the right thing by committing the act he had—but there was nothing for it now.

"When your guards told me that the majority of the soldiers who patrolled your town had been stricken with a sickness that was killing them in droves," he said, "he mentioned that they were being kept in the barracks. The stench of the place was terrible—so bad that I believed him when he told me that people were dying in there.

"So I decided to see how many people were still alive inside—just to find out how well your guards might be faring." His voice was hard as steel. "I used a Shout that reveals the life force of any being within a certain distance around me—living, undead, or otherwise animate in some way."

Slowly, he approached Skald, now looking him in the eye. "There was _nothing_ in that building," he growled. "No life force whatsoever. Everything and everyone inside that building had died from the Knahaten Flu."

"He's right," Colette piped up beside him, a little more prepared to speak now that no guards were around to restrain her. "Right after the Arch-Mage did that Shout, I performed a scrye just to make sure he didn't miss anything." She slumped a little. "He didn't. So he Shouted again … "

" … and made sure that the damnable plague they were carrying died with them," finished Grimnir. "You vastly underestimated the severity of the situation, my Jarl—not to mention the danger of this disease. Are you not aware of the history this Flu has? The entirety of Tamriel suffered from it! The Khajiit of Elsweyr were forced to burn entire _cities_ to the ground—and it _still_ didn't slow the spread of the Flu!"

"Your point being?" groused Skald.

Grimnir ignored the underlying message of the question—that Skald was either unable or unwilling to rouse himself to care about what he likely deemed ancient history that had nothing whatever to do with Skyrim or its people.

"My point, Jarl Skald—and I mean this with all due respect," he said, "is that from my point of view, you have acted incredibly— _laughably_ —irresponsibly in dealing with the return of the Knahaten Flu! Colette and I journeyed here expecting to heal the sick and dying—but we find most of those sick and dying have been left to their own devices, while the man who is meant to look out for their well-being is holed up inside his own palace, _in fear of his life_!"

"You mind your tongue around your elders, boy!" Skald shot back. "Don't you think me for a fool—I know damn well what I'm doing in my keep and with my hold! The last thing I want is for Skyrim to be in a panic so soon after last year—the Black Worm plot, the assassination of Ulfric! If word got out that this disease was gripping Dawnstar, there'd be mass hysteria. So I closed the borders to make sure no innocent people would catch it and spread it through the province—and I called back the soldiers from Dunstad to replace the ones I lost to the Flu! Aye, I didn't tell them it _was_ the Flu," he admitted, his voice softening a small amount, "but would you have done the same if you didn't want to leave your town a sitting duck?!"

"For what?!" Grimnir wanted to know. "What kind of fool has a death wish to attack a town that's already _dying_?"

The silence that followed was even louder than the first one. Instantly Grimnir could tell that his query had struck a chord among everyone inside the White Hall. Madena was nervously looking back and forth between the Arch-Mage and Skald—and the Jarl, Grimnir was surprised to see, sounded nervous for the first time in his memory.

"That's a good question, Dragonborn," Skald said, his voice unnaturally quiet. "A very good question—and I'll give you the answer, aye. It's the kinds of fools what are already dead in the first place."

"Dead?" That threw Grimnir for a loop. "You mean like _draugr_?" But already he suspected that wasn't the answer—the emaciated husks of warriors he was used to seeing inside Nordic tombs were far older than even the first, deadliest incarnation of the Knahaten Flu.

"Like ghosts," Skald said. "That was how this all started, aye. Yesterday, one of the sailors on a ship what makes port here—the _Sea Squall_ ; small little ship that does a route between here and Winterhold—claimed he saw a figure called the White Widow. Supposed to be the ghost of a woman who died on her wedding day—mauled by a bear, the story went—and she's apparently made out to be this harbinger of doom to anyone what sees her."

"You don't sound like you put a lot of faith in this story," Colette pointed out. "Ghosts are one thing—those, we know can exist—but 'harbingers of doom'?"

"That's what I thought at the time, aye," grunted Skald. "The old codger's shipmates thought so too. He and one of the others came to blows after he came back babbling about the Widow, and his captain had him carted off to the town jail. I saw the guards carry him past Rustleif's house—the town blacksmith. Coughing up a storm, he was—looked like he'd taken a hard punch to the gut.

"I didn't think much about it till this morning," Skald went on. "I woke up to see that giant red ship dropped anchor outside the bay. The Sea Squall was gone—it sailed into the ice fields, I heard; no one's seen it since. And old Guthrum, the sailor they'd thrown in jail … "

The Jarl's face grew uncharacteristically green at that moment, and he did not finish his sentence. Nor did Grimnir think he needed to; he could guess what had happened from there. This Guthrum person had been the first to be infected with the Knahaten Flu—as to how he'd got it, the Arch-Mage did not know; the story of this "White Widow" sounded a little too fanciful to be anything more than a tall tale. One way or the other, however, Guthrum's time in jail had allowed the Flu to spread out from his body, like a spark to dry kindling. Before long, every guard in town had been infected with the disease, because of how they had to change posts on a regular basis. They were all infected—and now, they were all dead.

But that wasn't right. If this really was Knahaten Flu, then the guards should not have died so quickly. The Flu needed anywhere from a few days to a week before its symptoms proved fatal—yet it sounded as though this disease was capable of killing in _less than a day_ —far too quickly to be the Knahaten Flu, Grimnir thought, and far too rapidly to spread among so many people in such a short time, and kill them all in more or less the same way.

Something wasn't adding up here, he mused—but it could demand his attention later. The situation in Danwstar had changed—he would have to enact his plan much sooner than he'd anticipated.

"For the sake of argument," he therefore asked Skald, "is there anyone in town who's actually seen this White Widow? Anybody living, I mean to say—anyone who can tell me everything they know about it?"

Skald considered. "I wasn't there personally," he said, "but Madena sent word along that old Rustleif the blacksmith had seen it after he'd left his house earlier today—maybe a few hours before you came along. He and his wife, Seren, were helping to take care of anyone who'd already come down with the Flu. It's just him now, so I heard—less than a minute after he met the Widow, his wife took ill with that damned disease … along with his baby daughter."

Grimnir felt a horrible pit form inside his stomach at the mention of what had happened to this Rustleif's family. "I should like to speak to him later today," he said, quickly driving it out of his mind. "But there are more important things to take care of first."

He stepped forward. "Jarl Skald, please forgive me when I believe that you could have handled this situation much better than you have so far. It is clear to us that the College's help is gravely needed here." He paused. "However."

Skald frowned, clearly suspicious about something. "Well, spit it out, boy!"

Grimnir chewed the ravaged skin of his lip for a few moments while he considered how best to explain what he was about to do. "Thanks to your efforts, I believe that stopping the Knahaten Flu at its source takes greater priority now than merely treating the unfortunate men, women, and children who have fallen victim to it. I'd hoped to wait to do this until after we were certain that the people of Dawnstar were out of danger—but we cannot afford to waste any more time."

At a nod from Colette, he took another step forward. "I intend to destroy the Crimson Ship anchored outside the town—by sinking it, scuttling it, or doing whatever it takes to rid Dawnstar of its tainted shadow. I believe—and Colette agrees with me—that the ship may be the source of the Flu, and therefore, that destroying it may prevent it from ever causing harm to any coastline again."

The Arch-Mage took a deep breath. "I am prepared to do this now," he said, "although I would rather have waited until later. I ask that everyone wait inside until I am done."

"How will we know?" Madena asked.

Grimnir's mask looked her right in the eye. "You will." And he said nothing more on the matter—all that was left to do was hear Skald's judgment on the matter.

The Jarl did not speak for some time. Occasionally, he grunted and groaned to himself—apparently his way of thinking things over. No doubt he was still angry at Grimnir for destroying the barracks of his town—but Grimnir had only done that because leaving it otherwise was just asking for the Knahaten Flu to come inside and feast on the dying soldiers, killing them shortly thereafter—and incubating into enough disease to affect Skald's entire hold, or more.

Finally, Skald gave a grudging nod. "All right, then," he said. "Do what you have to. But we'll be having words when this is done, Dragonborn," he said. "There's going to be consequences for you destroying my town, mark me. I can only pray to the Nine that you're alive to hear them for yourself."

It was a double-edged compliment if Grimnir had ever heard one—but it was the best he was likely to get out of the crusty old Jarl. "Thank you," he said, pounding his breast in a salute, before stepping out of the White Hall—and into a Dawnstar that seemed more silent than ever.

* * *

"That man has been Jarl for far too long," Colette growled under her breath the moment the doors to Skald's keep had closed. "He should have stepped down before Ulfric put the whole province into crisis. He's too possessive of his hold—thinks anyone who steps inside its borders that didn't ally with the Stormcloaks is a charge of treason just waiting to happen."

"He knows better," Grimnir said placatingly. "He knew there was no point arguing with who I am. Even if it's a part of me I'm trying to live without … it's who I am," he said again after a short pause.

He cleared his throat. "Okay," he said. "Cover your ears, Colette. I'm going to give Odahviing the first signal. He should have a clear line of sight from here."

Colette nodded, and raised her gloved hands to either side of Hevnoraak's rusted face.

Once Grimnir was certain she'd sufficiently protected himself, he acted. " _Lok … Vah KOOR_!"

There was a clap of thunder, and a shockwave of transparent energy radiated out from the Arch-Mage's mouth, disappearing beyond the horizon faster than either mage could blink. For a moment, there was nothing, and it seemed that that was all that the Shout could have done.

Then, moments later, a ray of sunlight broke the overcast sky, lancing through the iron-gray clouds and into the dark waters of the bay. A second one followed—then a third, a fourth—half a score, a full score—

The sun burst out from the sky in full force, seeming to obliterate the clouds that had concealed it all day; pushed aside by the force of Grimnir's Shout, they turned into wisps, and even those were dispelled into nothingness. A shadow briefly fell upon Grimnir's gaze; instinctively, he whirled in the direction of its source—only to relax upon seeing that that source was only Odahviing stretching his massive wings, which blocked out the sun from where the crimson dragon crouched atop the ruined temple.

"Can you see anything with your scrye, Colette?" he asked, indicating the Crimson Ship in the distance.

The Breton ummed under her breath for a moment. "No," she eventually answered him. "No signs of life at all. Of course, it could be far enough away that my scrye can't detect anything aboard—and it could be enchanted to resist my magic as well."

"It's the best chance we have," Grimnir told her. "Keep it active until after Odahviing's played his part. If there's anything on board that ship, I want to hear about it from you. Understood?"

"Understood."

"Then I'm going to give the second signal. Stand back."

Colette did so, and Grimnir craned his neck until he was looking straight up at the sky. Again, he concentrated the ancient magic of the Thu'um inside his lungs, breathed in until he felt it inside his throat—then out.

" _Fo … Krah DIIN_!"

* * *

Inside the cramped shelter beneath their house, Rustleif and Seren heard the Shouts—and realized what it meant.

"The Dragonborn's here!" Seren cried out—even through the darkness of the space, the smothering cloths that covered her face, there was no mistaking the jubilation in her voice. "That must have been _his_ dragon we heard back then—that's why it never attacked the town!"

She made as if to make her way back up the ladder to the trap door of their home, a sleeping Makela in tow—but Rustleif was just barely able to stay her.

"Easy, dearest," he soothed her. "Whatever's going on out there, it sounds like some kind of battle. Best we stay inside until it's blown over. If it's the Dragonborn," he added, grinning beneath his wrappings, "then I doubt he'll be long."

"I hope you're right," Seren said as she settled back down on the bedroll, letting Makela out of her grasp to trundle on the soft surface. "I hope you're right."

That was when they heard the second, much deeper Shout.

" _Iiz … Slen NUS_!"

* * *

Aboard the Crimson Ship, its pale commander saw the skyward geyser of frozen air erupting in the distance. A few seconds later, however—before she could make sense of what it was—a much larger missile of frozen air exploded from the dragon that had landed upon the old temple.

This one was heading right for the vessel, and she understood at once what it was meant to do. It was a clever move, admittedly—one that might well have worked a thousand years ago, when this ship still had a living soul within its creaking walls.

But a thousand years could be both a short time, and a long time. There was more to this vessel than met the eye, its commander knew as she stroked its planks with a pale finger, feeling the wood tingle with secret magic …

* * *

There was a good reason that Grimnir had requested Odahviing use the Shout he'd just let fly on the Crimson Ship.

Ice Form, the Greybeards of High Hrothgar called it—so named because anything in its path was instantly covered within a thick sheet of ice, as cold as the winds that constantly buffeted the Throat of the World, the highest mountain in Tamriel. In some cases, anyone luckless enough to be caught in the thick of this Shout would be frozen solid—the moment the Shout's effects wore off, they would shatter into a thousand pieces.

This was the outcome that Grimnir was counting on. Fire Breath—such as he'd used on that troll, as well as the doomed barracks of Dawnstar later on—Frost Breath, and Unrelenting Force had equally explosive results. If they hit the Crimson Ship, it might send bits and pieces of the vessel flying everywhere, thereby running the risk of spreading the Knahaten Flu they believed it was carrying to a much wider area than just the city limits of Dawnstar.

Storm Call, his second-most powerful Shout, was too indiscriminate—if Grimnir used that here, odds were he'd destroy all of Dawnstar before destroying the ship. That only left Ice Form—and Odahviing, being a legendary red dragon, had far superior range, power, and control over such a Shout than Grimnir could ever hope to achieve.

But more importantly, if Odahviing's Ice Form hit the ship—as it was looking to do right now—then the entire vessel would be covered in so much ice that it would sink under its own weight. Masts and rigging would collapse, completely frozen; the decks and ports would collapse under _those_ —and it would repeat all the way down to the keel, which would rapidly flood the remains of the ship, and sink the collection of wood and ice within minutes.

It was clean.

It was simple.

It was perfect.

It was only seconds away from impact—

—and then Colette Marence opened her eyes.

"I'm picking up some kind of magickal signatures on that ship," she said, eyes narrowed. Whatever she was seeing, she didn't look like she believed it. "It's spreading out over the whole vessel … some kind of alteration magic … "

Grimnir was about to press her for more information—and then the next moment, he'd felt his jaw drop in shock as he saw Odahviing's Ice Form _pass right through the Crimson Ship_.

"What the devil?!" he said out loud, whirling upon Colette. "Tell me that didn't just happen!"

The Breton mage shook her head, clearly unwilling to accept what she'd just seen, either.

"I'll try again," Grimnir grunted. " _Fo … Krah DIIN_!" A second burst of icy breath spouted into the sky.

" _Iiz … Slen NUS_!" rumbled Odahviing from high above, expelling his own frigid attack a second time, right for the Crimson Ship. The blast of ultra-chilled air expanded, preparing to engulf the Crimson Ship—

This time, Grimnir saw it: the moment Odahviing's Ice Form made contact, the hull of the entire vessel seemed to shimmer and slightly distort, as though it had been covered in a thin film of water catching the rays of the sun. It was clearly some form of barrier—there was no way of telling anything else beyond that, short of venturing onto the Crimson Ship itself. And if what Grimnir had just seen was any indication, then that was out of the question.

"No sense in doing this a third time," he said to Colette, who had slumped in defeat. "We'd be beating a dead horse. Until we learn more about what we saw from that ship … there's nothing more we can learn. Nothing we can do."

"There's one thing we did learn, though," said Colette. "Someone or some _thing_ is on board that ship. It wasn't doing that magic on its own—magicka doesn't come from out of nowhere, especially on that scale; it has to have a source."

"Maybe the ship was enchanted," Grimnir mused out loud. "Can't be much different from enchanting a weapon, can it?"

"A ship that big would need an entire Mages' Guild to put even _one_ enchantment on it," snorted Colette. "There's no other way around it: that ship is being piloted—controlled. Whoever or whatever it is has immense magical capability. And you know what that tells me?"

"What?"

The Breton sounded grim. "This is starting to look less and less like a simple outbreak of Knahaten Flu," she said.

Grimnir winced—he could practically hear both his and Colette's stomachs dropping. "Which means dealing with it is going to take a hell of a lot longer than we thought," he realized.

Colette nodded. "We'd better inform the Jarl what happened out here," she said. "He's got even less options now than he did before we came. I think the only thing left to do from here is to—"

She broke off. The Breton's head was turning this way and that. "Do you hear that?" she asked.

Grimnir shrugged. He'd suffered extensive injuries to his ear the previous year—so it was particularly hard for him to hear anything on one side of his body. So he followed Colette's lead, turning his body in a circle, straining his remaining good ear to listen for—

_What was that?_

Grimnir frowned, trying to make sense of the faint noises he was hearing on the wind. "Sounds like someone singing," he muttered to Colette. "Maybe a woman?"

"Or a Widow?" The Breton sounded as though she was fighting the impulse to run; she'd half turned towards the door of the White Hall, and her hand was twitching slightly.

"Don't tell me you believe that tall tale Skald fed us!" the Arch-Mage huffed at her indignantly.

"After what we saw with the Crimson Ship?" Colette replied, turning back to Grimnir. "I'd believe _anything_ —"

And then she let loose a huge gasp, stumbling backwards so rapidly that she lost her balance, and landed backside-first in the snow. But Colette didn't seem to care; her entire body was trembling, and she slowly raised a finger to point somewhere behind Grimnir.

He turned—and immediately swore as he saw it _right there_.

The ghostly figure was so close to him that if Grimnir reached out with his hand, he believed he might be able to touch it. But every impulse in his body was telling him not to—to run away from this unexpected apparition, to put as much distance and mass between it and him as much as possible.

And yet … the figure had a strangely soothing air about it, even in spite of its appearance. It was clearly female—the shape of the ghost was distinctly that of a beautiful woman, albeit one of unknown race and age. Her translucent face was hidden in shadow, on account of the white veil draped over the figure's head. A single garment of white covered her pale skin from neck to foot—a traditional wedding dress, a stunned Grimnir thought apropos of nothing, and one that appeared to be spattered with blood and various fluids he dared not think about.

In the back of his mind, he could hear Colette screaming at him, tugging at him and trying to tear him away from the mesmerizing sight. But now the figure was beginning to sing—a low, lilting tune that sent a chill through his bones, and almost into his very soul:

_Send them all_

_To Oblivion's flame_

At that moment, Grimnir felt a sharp pain in the base of his spine, and all of a sudden the blissful feeling that he had been experiencing was gone. He could hear Colette yelling in his ear to run—but he couldn't; his legs felt as though they were jelly.

He turned to look at Colette, and his moment of distraction cost him—by the time he'd turned round to look at the White Widow for a second time, the apparition had already gone.

Feeling exceptionally foolish—and yet, feeling empty and cheated—Grimnir allowed himself to be led back into the White Hall by Colette, with no resistance whatsoever.

What was that? his mind kept asking itself, even as the doors banged shut, and Skald's voice demanded an update as though it were thousands of miles away. What the bloody hell did I just see? The sharp jolt that had brought him out of his stupor had now faded as well, and now, all that the Arch-Mage could feel was a terrified numbness seeping into his skin. He felt sullied, somehow … he felt dirty.

As Grimnir Torn-Skull slumped onto the stone floor of the Jarl's keep, he began to cough.


	6. V

V

The commotion outside had brought Jarl Skald out of his chair.

One moment, things had been relatively silent, save for the occasional Shout rending through the air; he'd taken the time to appreciate the moments of calm in between, lounging on his throne as he usually did. Whether it would be his last one for a long while, or the first of many to come, Skald did not deign to ponder; worrying about the future would turn him grayer than he already was.

The next moment, a scream had cut his peaceful moment in two. It was that Breton—the mage the Dragonborn had brought with him—and then, without warning, they'd both tumbled through the door of the White Hall. Owing to the masks on their faces, Skald could not see them—but they certainly _sounded_ scared out of their wits.

As he stood up in surprise, he noticed something odd: the Breton was practically dragging the Dragonborn behind her; Grimnir looked frozen with shock. Again, Skald could not see his face, but he'd seen the way his feet dragged on plenty of soldiers before—men and women too surprised or stunned to function.

To see that look on the Dragonborn … "What the devil just happened out there?" Skald demanded of Grimnir's companion— _Colette, was her name?_ he wondered idly. "Did you take out that ship?"

Colette shook her head: _no_. Skald felt his jaw go slack. "How?!" he could only say in a stunned whisper, the softest he'd heard his voice in years. "I heard enough Shouting to tear my whole damned keep apart—even that dragon you flew in on, of all things! How could _anything_ survive all that—let alone a _single ship_?!"

It took some time before Colette was ready to speak. When she did, she sounded very unsure of herself—as though even she didn't believe the words coming out of her own mouth.

"The Crimson Ship has been … _protected_ ," she said. "There's a layer of alteration magic infused within the entire vessel. It's like nothing I've ever seen before—the closest I could place it would be the 'flesh spells' that we mages often use in place of armor. But this doesn't simply block attacks—it just lets them pass through the ship without it suffering any damage."

"The Dragonborn can do the same thing with his Voice," Skald pointed out. This was true—he had indeed seen Grimnir turn ghostly and transparent, like an echo or a ghost, so as to prevent any harm coming to him.

"That only works for _himself_ , though," said Colette. "This magic was used on an entire _ship_. If any Voice can do _that_ , I've yet to see anyone do it—and if the Greybeards can't, then I don't think the Arch-Mage can, either."

"What are we to do against it, then?" Madena asked, emerging from a door and arriving alongside Skald.

"Physical attacks are out of the question," Colette answered her. "It's very likely that a magickal assault will be useless as well. That damned ship shrugged off the Voice of a _red dragon_ —the most powerful type of dragon save for Alduin himself—like it was nothing."

"And the Flu that's infected the majority of the city will keep anyone from boarding it," murmured Madena. The face of the court mage had deflated like dough as the truth of the matter sank in.

"So you're saying this entire venture was a waste of my time?" Skald wanted to know. He could feel his choleric mood from before slipping back into him. "Trust a mage of Winterhold to fix this, I think not!"

Colette held up her hands defensively. "Not entirely, Jarl Skald," she said; whether it was the mask or not, her voice sounded oddly strained at the moment, as though she was gritting through her teeth. "Grimnir and I did make a discovery while we were out there—although I don't think you're going to like it."

Skald spared a glance at Grimnir, who'd slumped into a nearby chair while they'd been talking. He was taking very deep breaths in and out; the Jarl could only assume he was trying to get his wits together so as not to appear weak in the face of his lord. Perhaps the Dragonborn was right to keep calm, he decided—to let cooler heads prevail.

To Colette, therefore, he merely grunted; it was a sign for her to continue. "That spell on the Crimson Ship was no enchantment—it didn't trigger on its own," the Breton said. "It spread out from someplace inside it, and enveloped the vessel from there. I imagine," she added in the direction of Madena, who'd let out a small gasp, "that you understand what this means."

Madena indeed did. "Someone's on that ship," she said, in a fearful whisper. "Someone cast that spell! But who could have that much power, to enchant an entire ship with a magic that can withstand a dragon?!"

"It gets worse," Colette said. "I believe that someone is also responsible for spreading the Knahaten Flu throughout Dawnstar—and that whoever this _someone_ is did it deliberately."

There was a prolonged silence. The White Hall was completely quiet, save for Grimnir's continued wheezing. Even the winds that lashed the keep on a frequent basis seemed to have died down.

Then, Skald did something no one had been expecting—and snickered. Not for long, of course—it didn't suit a Jarl, even if he was an old codger—but it was enough to let Colette know exactly what he thought of her 'belief'.

"Let me get this straight," he said," fighting the urge to smirk. "You're telling me that a disease which has decimated my city guard … and forced my people to hide like cowards … is all because of a single person's evil deeds? Do you have any idea how preposterous that sounds?!"

If Colette was at all scandalized by Skald's reaction, she didn't show it. "How do you know it _is_?" she said evenly. "Do you know the history of the Knahaten Flu?"

"Does it matter?" Skald huffed. "Skeevers spread Ataxia. Wolves spread Rockjoint. People catch diseases because they've handle things they either shouldn't or couldn't."

"Like other diseases, for instance?" Even through the mask, there was no mistaking the derision in Colette's voice.

"Precisely!" Skald cried out. "Whether they mean to or not, a person can spread a disease—but with something like this Knahaten Flu, they'd die trying before they succeeded! It's too deadly—and no one's that stupid or that _crazy_."

"That we know of," amended Colette. "Skald, I've read plenty of theories about the Knahaten Flu in my time. Some of them did manag to survive the Interregnum, finding their way into the archives of Mages' Guilds across Tamriel. According to them, there was one group that did not lose a single casualty to the Knahaten Flu."

Skald narrowed his eyes. "Who? How?"

"We don't know," the Breton shrugged. "The Argonians of Black Marsh were always immune to the Flu—and no one was keen to ask how at the time. Those were dark days for the preservation of knowledge; many accounts of those days—which could have helped us today—were either lost to the ages or passed down by word of mouth, where it could be tainted by exaggeration or outright fabrication."

She sighed. "Either way, because of the Argonians' natural immunity to the Knahaten Flu, many people began to believe they were responsible for turning it loose upon the world in the first place. This didn't sit well with the rest of Tamriel—in a way, the Knahaten Flu outbreak of the Second Era was responsible for starting the Alliance War."

Skald and Madena traded uneasy glances. "So that's what happened?" the Jarl asked angrily. "An Argonian decided to destroy Tamriel by ravaging it with disease a thousand years ago—and now another one of those damned lizards is trying to repeat history in _my city_?"

"We don't know," Colette said again. "There's too many questions, and not enough time to answer them. All that we can tell you is that this situation has become far more dangerous than we anticipated. We were prepared to deal with a plague and treat the residents of Dawnstar to the best of our abilities. We were _not_ prepared for—"

But her words were cut off suddenly—and it was apparent to everyone inside what the source might be … or _who_.

For Grimnir Torn-Skull—whose heavy breathing, Colette realized too late, hadn't been to keep himself _calm_ —had suddenly lurched out of his chair and onto the ground with an explosive coughing fit that made her ears rattle.

Before she'd even known she'd done it, she'd made for her Arch-Mage in the time it took to draw breath. "Grimnir!" she called out, trying to make herself heard over the constant hacking and wheezing. "Grimnir—!"

But the Arch-Mage was convulsing now; such was the strength of his rasping cough that he was bent double on the floor of the White Hall. He felt a sudden relaxing feeling sweeping over him with every hack he made, leeching all the strength and stamina from his body; it felt like he was being turned into a rag doll—

Then, as if the transformation had completed at that precise moment, Grimnir's whole body went slack from head to toe. With one final, booming cough, the Arch-Mage of Winterhold toppled onto the floor and did not move.

Colette did not waste any time. "Get him outside— _now_!" she screamed at no one in particular. Skald, pale and frail all of a sudden, was reduced to shouting for his servant Bulfrek to haul Grimnir out of the main hall. Bulfrek did so with much difficulty—the Arch-Mage, even for his age, was still powerfully built; Captain Jod, Skald's housecarl and one of the few city guards still alive in Dawnstar, eventually had to lend his assistance.

The Breton mage, meanwhile, stood rooted to the ground in the kind of cold shock that always precedes the worst news imaginable. She could not blame Skald in the slightest for how weak-willed he'd looked in that moment—the Jarl, she knew, had just come to the same conclusion as she had. Somehow, some way, a situation that neither of them thought could get any worse just _did_ … and this time, she didn't have a clue as to how she'd be able to solve it.

But, even as she felt the last vestige of hope expire in her soul—even as she felt the rusted iron of Hevnoraak crushing down upon her face, as if mocking her for her helplessness—Colette Marence knew she had to _try_.

* * *

 _Cold_.

It sliced into him, suffocated him—it always had, in those first days after that fateful battle. It always would, in the frozen north where he'd made his new home. It would never leave him—despite the fire that blazed deep within his soul, he knew the time was nearing when it would flicker and die.

 _Pain_.

For the whole year since, the socket where his right eye had once been had never ceased to torment him. He could still feel the sparks and stabs of lightning digging into the scarred flesh, brought on by an attack from a foe he'd never seen coming. Even the enchanted mask of the dragon priest Morokei, which he wore near-constantly, did not completely nullify the discomfort of magickally-inflicted injuries, nor would—

Something was wrong. A curious sensation rushed across his face. He smelled salty air, felt it on his scarred face. He thought he might have heard a gasp, though it could just as easily have been the wind.

The sensation did not last very long—but something felt different about this familiar environment; though Grimnir could still feel the weight of a mask on his face, it felt different from before. The smell wasn't quite right, either; he'd worn each of his masks long enough to tell them apart with just about every sense at his disposal. The ebony face of Nahkriin was black, sooty, and warm to the touch—almost uncomfortably so, if he wasn't already someplace cold. Morokei's bluish moonstone was much lighter on his face, more soothing for his aches and scars; it didn't hurt that it smelled rather like J'zargo's Elsweyr fondue, if with much more Eidar cheese than any cook needed to use.

The mask he was feeling on his face right now was neither of these; it was cold, heavy, and smelled of blood—no, his mind corrected, not blood, but _iron_ ; which could only mean he was wearing Hevnoraak—

And then the memories of the past hour had poured in on him like a flood; he remembered arriving at Dawnstar, seeing the strange red ship anchored offshore. He remembered attacking it alongside Odahviing, and watching in wild-eyed consternation as the ship had stood firm against their voices—

Then, with a chill, he remembered the vision he'd seen bare feet away from him, just after the attack—the ghostly figure he'd seen, bare moments before Colette had pulled him inside—

_Send them all_

_To Oblivion's flame_

Grimnir felt his single eye snap open. He was lying flat on his back, in a snow drift outside the White Hall—he could tell because no other building in the town could cast such a large shadow, no matter the time of day. Light flurries were falling on his face; one or twice, a few individual snowflakes would slip through the mouth and eye holes of the mask he wore, stinging his scars, but giving them a blessed moment of relief just as quickly.

Colette Marence and Madena were standing over him. Odahviing was nowhere in sight; Grimnir assumed this was because he'd gotten bored after not being able to sink the Crimson Ship, and so had flown back to High Hrothgar. Neither mage showed their faces; Colette was wearing Morokei, while Madena's whole head had been swathed in strips of fresh linen. Grimnir didn't see anything out of the ordinary with that, either, except that maybe they were eyeing him with more concern than was usual. Madena in particular looked as though she was going to be ill; she had a hand clapped over her mouth, almost as though she'd seen—

Then it hit him.

 _Colette was wearing Morokei_.

She was wearing his dragon priest's mask.

And she'd been wearing _Hevnoraak_ ever since they'd left the College together.

An awful sensation gripped Grimnir's chest, colder than the chill that assaulted his body. With what felt like great difficulty, he turned his neck to look at Colette. "How long?"

"About half an hour," said the Breton. Grimnir noticed how hesitantly she was speaking. She'd produced a tankard filled with water, steaming slightly at the top. "I had to melt down some snow to make this—it was the best I could do on the spur of the moment."

Grimnir didn't care—he grabbed the tankard and drank greedily. The water was warmer than he would have liked, and he felt his eyes and lips burn as it slopped all over his mask, tricking down the holes in his mask. Only a little bit of water managed to travel down his gullet, but it still soothed the dryness in his throat, if only for a little while.

It did not, however, do anything to assuage the sinking feeling in the Arch-Mage's stomach. Even as his throat began to feel wet enough for him to speak more clearly, he could feel the warmth of the liquid evaporating in his belly.

He began to sit up—but was immediately rebuffed by Madena. "Don't move so suddenly, Arch-Mage," she said quietly—as though she were talking to someone on their deathbed. "We still don't know fully what happened to you. We need to be sure that you're stable."

"What do you mean?" Grimnir wanted to know. "What happened? The last thing I remember is coughing up a storm and collapsing."

No one spoke—but Colette and Madena traded glances. Even though their faces were concealed, Grimnir sensed the silent exchange that passed between them … and the truth he'd been dreading to hear sank into him like a rock.

"I'm … infected?"

Again, neither of the Bretons spoke. Finally, at a look from Madena, Colette broke the silence. "There's good news and bad news," she said softly. "And I'm sorry to say there's more bad news than good."

A sigh. "We don't know how—but yes … you do have the Knahaten Flu."

For once in his life, Grimnir was at a loss for words. Even though he knew it to be true, there was still the matter of … "How?" he could only say, feeling his voice crack.

" _I just said we don't know_!" Colette blurted out, before she could stop herself. "Nothing makes sense about this anymore. Every answer we've discovered seems to bring up two more questions. You should have been protected enough against it, the mask and gloves you were wearing should have been enough … "

But Grimnir wasn't listening. "Colette," he said as patiently as he could—which was to say, not in the slightest—"if you want to continue to live life knowing there's still a Dragonborn in Tamriel, you're going to skip the details and give me the bad news. How long do I have?"

Before a still-muttering Colette could reply, Madena stepped in. "That's … actually the good news," she said, still hesitating. The sections of cloth covering her eyes were glowing the unmistakable blue of a scrye. "Although I think 'good' is relative in this case, the disease appears to have … _stabilized_ inside you."

Grimnir narrowed his single eye. "And what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Remember how Hevnoraak's enchantments are able to provide immunity to both disease and poison to anyone who wears it?" Colette asked. Upon a nod from the Arch-Mage: "It looks as though that immunity goes further than just external threats—but _internal_ as well. If someone's already dying from a disease, but then they slip on Hevnoraak's mask, the magic imbued within it can—as far as we can tell—send it into a kind of stasis."

"To put it simply," said Madena, "you're still infected—but as long as you're wearing Hevnoraak, you won't die from it, and you won't be able to infect anyone else with the Flu."

"And if I were to take it off?" ventured Grimnir.

The silence of the mages was all the answer he needed.

"All right," grunted the Arch-Mage. "So I've got to wear this damned hunk of iron for what may be the rest of my life. Is that what you're saying?"

He saw Madena's wrappings bulge slightly around her throat—as if she was swallowing. "Well … that's where the news goes back to bad," said the court mage. "We scanned you with almost every scrye we knew while you were out cold—and we now know why this Flu is killing more quickly than its predecessor did a thousand years ago."

Grimnir stayed where he was; inwardly, he was bracing himself for whatever he might hear next.

"The scryes revealed faint traces of foreign magicka within your body—most of it concentrated on your internal organs," said Colette. "It's some kind of restoration magic—but instead of healing the target, it's doing the complete opposite. It seems to be accelerating the symptoms of the Flu—and the more concentrated that magicka is, the faster the disease will progress. What once took a week to kill, can now happen in less than a day."

Grimnir's mouth felt drier than ever. "Then … "

"I'm afraid so," said Madena. "This is the last piece of proof we needed. Whether or not the Knahaten Flu was a natural phenomenon or not is no longer a relevant question. Without a doubt … this was intentional."

"Someone did this deliberately," Grimnir said dully. He could not find the will to express anything more; such was the numbness that had crept into his body. A cross between a magic spell and a disease … a weapon of mass murder … Weapons of this kind had never been seen in Tamriel in so long … His head was spinning … he needed to …

He felt a slim pair of hands on his shoulders. "Easy," Colette soothed him. "I know it's a lot to take in, but there is still hope for us. Like we said—as long as you're wearing Hevnoraak, you won't die."

"But I'm going to wish I _could_ , aren't I?" Grimnir asked. "This enchantment on the mask … there's nothing about it that tells me it's a cure. It's just a stopgap—a way to postpone the inevitable."

He glared at Colette as sternly as his single eye would let him. "I'm not going to be ungrateful that you saved my life, Colette. But I'm not going to pretend that's what you did, either. All you did was stretch out my lifeline like a string of taffy. Eventually, something's going to give—the fingers pulling the treat apart … or the treat itself."

A sigh. "This is exactly why I gave you Hevnoraak to wear on the way over here, you know—not Morokei," he said bitterly. "I told you before that you're so much more important to these people than I am—you deserve to survive long enough to make sure all these people here survive, too."

"Grimnir, don't talk that way," said the restoration instructor—though she was sounding desperate. "You know full well I need you here, too. They need someone to give them hope."

"And how can I do that while I'm _sick_?" demanded the Arch-Mage. "How do you know that dragon part of me won't save me from this, huh? How do you know I'm not _human_ enough to _die to a plague after all_?!"

Colette had taken several steps back. The Breton had been stunned into silence; it seemed she could think of nothing to say.

When Grimnir next spoke, his voice was raspier than ever. "Do you still think that I'm more important than you?" he said softly. He could almost see Colette's mouth working soundlessly under Morokei as she processed the question, even though the bluish moonstone visage blocked her face from view. She knew he had a point—she had no choice but to admit it.

And sure enough, Colette slumped where she stood a few long moments later—but just as quickly, stiffened back up. "You're no less important to me than anyone else who's dying from this Flu," she said resolutely. "Because one way or another, we _will_ save them all."

Her voice became a growl, most unlike the restoration instructor. "And whoever is responsible for making these people suffer in the first place … they will _regret the day they were ever born_."

And for some reason, despite everything that had happened today, hearing that from Colette made Grimnir feel a little bit better already.

* * *

_Later that day_

Night had fallen over Dawnstar by the time the three mages had arrived at Madena's dwelling.

None of their delay was due to the worry of infection from the Flu—but rather the fear of being discovered. Grimnir had been dumped in an old horse-drawn cart, and the two sorcerers had carried him over to Madena's house from the White Hall. Of course, the shoreline that was the town's main street was deserted, but neither was taking any chances; the Arch-Mage had been covered with an old blanket that Madena promptly burned to ashes the second Colette had closed the back door, so as to prevent any chance of it harboring the loathsome disease.

Jarl Skald, when he'd learned of what had transpired with Grimnir, had immediately forbidden either Breton from repeating the events of what had happened outside his hall. The Knahaten Flu had wrought enough devastation on his city guard and the morale of his people, he'd said—but he would not allow it to destroy their reason to live. But that was precisely what would happen, he had said, if they were to learn what had happened to Grimnir Torn-Skull. For if even a god in human form could be laid low by this disease, then the people of Dawnstar, and Skyrim with them, would lose all hope—and their unknown assailant, still hidden on the Crimson Ship from the worst of the plague, would emerge victorious without having to lift a finger.

Therefore, Madena had suggested of taking Grimnir to her house under cover of darkness. From there, she would keep Grimnir away from any unwanted attention—the house had once been a museum devoted to the Mythic Dawn cult. The recent disappearance of its curator, Silus Vesuius, had been the talk of the town only briefly; he'd not been regarded well by the town on account of a fascination Madena herself had deemed dangerous and unnatural.

In spite of this—or more likely _because_ of it—no one wanted to go near the house. Even Madena had refused to call the place livable until she'd thrown out everything Silus had ever owned and dumped it in the Sea of Ghosts. For most of Dawnstar, however, Silus' unexplained fate, and the subjects of his obsession, still cast a large enough pall over the place that Madena received very few visitors—even when such journeys were taken only as a last resort.

So it was with a fleeting apology that she welcomed Colette inside, after tucking Grimnir away on a spread-out pile of hay inside the cellar. "Sorry if the place looks a little bare," she said. "Skald said this house was cursed enough without me having to ply my craft here. I'm still his court wizard—but only at _his court_ , so he said."

"It's more spacious than the living space I'm given at the College," admitted Colette. "I'm not complaining, mind you—I don't have many personal effects there anyway. Just about everything I need is close by most of the time."

"You're lucky," Madena muttered. "Dawnstar gets shafted on trade routes, with Solitude so close by. The one regular route we had vanished into the Sea of Ghosts after their crew came down with the Flu." She sat down in a nearby chair, and sighed in a way that felt like all the ramifications of the day were crashing around them, having been carried on a yoke no mortal shoulders ought to bear.

"How is he?" she asked.

"I've put a calming spell on Grimnir just to be safe," said Colette. "But I don't know how long it's going to hold. There's a battle being waged in his body right now—the Flu and its magic, against the Dragonborn and _his_ magic. Right now, I'm not sure which side is going to win."

She groaned. "I feel like everything I know about magic is going out the proverbial window today."

"I don't blame you in the slightest for thinking that," Madena sighed. "Our situation isn't good."

She began to tick off her fingers one by one. "The Crimson Ship withstood the Arch-Mages's assault, the Arch-Mage himself is now ill with the very disease he was hoping to help us eradicate, and meanwhile, the disease in question actually _isn't_ a disease, but is actually a hybrid between a magic spell and a biological weapon."

Madena made a long, drawn-out groan of her own. "I'd say we've ended up right back where we started, but that would imply we've actually made some kind of real progress in this mess."

The court mage leaned back in her chair, heaving another sigh. "What in Julianos' name do we do now?"

Colette had to admit the situation was grim. "If it were an outbreak of Ataxia or Rockjoint, it'd be a simple matter of concocting a curative—charred hide of skeever and chitin of mudcrab is easy to come by here. But with this … I don't think there's much we can do except keep on doing what we have been. Has it just been you who's been taking care of the townsfolk?"

Madena shook her head. "Seren's been a big help," she replied. "She's the only Redguard who lives in the town—if she didn't know about the legend that came with this Crimson Ship, and the disease it carried, I think you and Grimnir would have arrived at a ghost town by now. From what I was able to gather, she persuaded the Stormcloak attaché to take her warning to the High King himself—that was how Grimnir got the news in the first place.

"Since then, Seren's been mixing up pot after pot of chicken broth to give to the townspeople," Madena went on. "Not an easy thing to do when you've got a youngling to look after. Her husband, Rustleif—he's the blacksmith of the town—has been assisting her." Her face fell. "But I heard Seren and the baby both came down with the Flu since last I saw them. I've not seen any of the family since—if they're smart, they'll stay in the house."

"That may not be enough," said Colette. She chewed her tongue. "I think we need to consider the possibility that Dawnstar should be evacuated."

There was a brief pause; the only sound filling the house was the crackling fire behind the two mages.

"Do you even know what you're asking?" Madena said incredulously. "You're saying that everyone in this town—miners, sailors, shopkeepers and soldiers … what little left of them we have, even … is to drop everything they're doing and leave a town which some of our townsfolk have lived in their whole lives?"

Colette held up her hands in placation. "Not permanently—just long enough until we can find a more long-lasting solution to combating the Flu than chicken broth. Traditional curative potions and enchantments might help to slow the effects even further, but it won't be enough." She looked the court mage dead in the eye. "We need something better—for Dawnstar, and for Skyrim."

Madena cast a look towards the trap door leading to her cellar, where they'd put Grimnir for the time being. "Even if we were somehow able to persuade the Jarl to do what you're asking—and may I remind you of all the rumors of the Dark Brotherhood living on our doorstep—how can he be assured that his town won't become a lawless zone? Not everyone in Skyrim is going to take the quarantine around the Pale seriously—and not every bandit has enough smarts in his skull to think 'Hmm—all this money and plunder, but no one here to watch over it? I wonder why?'"

"That's the hard part," said Colette. "This is where your Jarl needs to do the smart thing—for once in his life—and realize that we're throwing him and his town the strongest rope we have."

She stared at Madena, and there followed a moment of understanding between them. That the court mage had nothing to say in rebuttal was proof that no other alternative could be reached with what they knew now.

And so, Madena relented. "Are you familiar … with an alchemist by the name of Curalmil?"

Colette arched her eyebrows. "Curalmil?" she repeated. "He was one of the first great alchemists of Skyrim. I'd heard rumors that he was entombed in a barrow near Windhelm, but no one's ever found it. At least," she added, "no one _alive_ , anyway."

Madena leaned in close. "From what I'm given to understand, those rumors are right," she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Curalmil created an artifact called the White Phial—a bottle that can not only replenish any fluid poured inside it, but also enhance its potency beyond any potion today's alchemists could even _dream_ of reaching."

The restoration master felt her mouth go slack. "If we could imbue it with a curative," she said thoughtfully, "then we could administer it to everyone in the town without having to worry about restocking for more supplies! And the properties of the Phial might just be enough to where a simple cure-disease potion could get rid of this Flu!"

"It's a big 'might', though," admitted Madena. "We don't even know where that Phial is—if Curalmil buried it with him, or if it found its way into someone else's hands right now." She paused. "About a week before the Knahaten Flu hit, a carriage came in from Windhelm. One of the travellers aboard spent the night here, and he claimed that the alchemist of Windhelm—a high elf by the name of Nurelion—was dying from a rare disease. Obviously not this Flu, but that's beside the point. Nurelion apparently had an obsession with the Phial, to the point where he named his shop after the thing."

Colette considered this. "You think he's still alive?"

"Frida would know—she runs the Mortar and Pestle here," replied Madena. "She'd know if Nurelion had passed on or not. But seeing as she hasn't said anything on the matter—and I don't fancy risking a walk to her shop to find out—it has to be assumed Nurelion's still running the place, if only from his bed."

Another pause from Colette. "I don't know if I fancy taking that much time just to pursue an apothecary's legend," said the Breton. "By the time we find this Phial—assuming it even exists anymore—Dawnstar might be done for."

"There is another alternative," Madena told her. "Thousands of years ago, the Akaviri fashioned an artifact called the Draconian Madstone. It functioned much like that iron mask Grimnir's wearing right now—in fact, I think the Madstone is old enough that it might even _predate_ it. That's right," she said, seeing the dawning look on Colette's face. "The Madstone may have more resistance to diseases and poisons than even an artifact of the dragon priests."

Colette let loose an incredulous sigh, slumping back in her chair. "What does it look like—this Madstone?"

"No one knew until very recently," said Madena. "It's very small—small enough that it could be worn on a chain, like a pendant or some other necklace. Beyond that, I could hardly say. The Madstone was lost within the Pale Pass for thousands of years, until the Oblivion Crisis hit Tamriel. Around that time, there were reports that a wealthy countess in Bruma—a known collector of Akaviri relics—organized an expedition to retrieve the Madstone. They succeeded, and so far as anyone knows, it's still in her private collection."

This revelation earned yet another sigh from Colette—only this one was more defeated than its predecessor. "Well, if that's the case, it'd be easier to get the Phial," she grumbled. "Trust the nobility of Cyrodiil to cough up a bit of jewelry that does more than gather dust on a shelf, with which to save all of Tamriel!" She snorted. "I think _not_."

"And it's not as though we can tell them the Dragonborn's caught the disease," Madena agreed. "Even the most secret of messages might risk inciting a panic if we're not careful. We have to keep this as quiet as possible."

"But can we?" Colette sounded desperate. "People are dying, this _town_ is dying! Even the Arch-Mage of Winterhold—the _Dragonborn_ —is dying! At what point does trying to prevent mass panic about a disease become more important than dealing with that disease itself?"

It seemed as though Madena could think of no answer to this. The court mage was chewing her tongue, trying to prolong the moment—to say anything that could make for a proper reply.

Nothing came to mind.

And so, she let loose a defeated sigh of her own. "All right," she said softly. "We'll need to talk to Skald about this, but I think we can impress upon him that we can keep this quiet—and still keep on track for finding a way to deal with this gods-damned Flu. After we do that, we can get to work.

"I'm proposing we combine our resources," said Madena. "Frida's got plenty of ingredients in her cellar that we can use to make more curatives, and she can work with Rustleif on making more of that chicken broth he's been passing out. With some luck, she might be able to put some more of her alchemy into the broth, too—which would be a lot of help for anyone infected with the Flu."

"In the meantime," Colette said, catching on, "I can give you the soul gems I brought with me from the College; I'm assuming you've got a fair stock of your own." Upon a nod from Madena: "We'll use any jewelry we've got close to hand, and enchant them with the gems so they can resist both this disease, and magic in general. I doubt it'll stop it outright, but in tandem with Rustleif's broth, the magic imbued within the trinkets may help to slow down the disease even more."

Madena nodded. "I'll spread word around the town to pool any loose rings and amulets they have in their households. We may not have much of it here, but every little bit helps."

"We can't make any more of it for ourselves?" Colette asked.

"Rustleif's our only blacksmith," replied Madena. "And he's going to be busy enough as is. Unless they teach you how to work a forge up in Winterhold?"

Colette sniffed. "Point taken." She leaned back in her chair. "This is going to be a lot of work—a whole lot of people going from one house to the next, risking contamination just by going out their door. I hate to say it, Madena, but I worry someone's going to be careless and just forget to do one little thing. For want of a nail … "

" … the town is lost," Madena sighed, nodding in grudging understanding. "One little step means the difference between a dream come true and our worst nightmare.

Then, quite suddenly, she sat forward

Colette leaned forward, too. "I know that look," she remarked, intrigued. "You've got a plan, don't you?"

"I do," sighed Madena again, "but Skald's not going to like it … "

* * *

One floor below them, however, someone was listening to them talking.

Grimnir hadn't been able to sleep since Madena and Colette had left him on the stone floor of the cellar, swathed in so many blankets and rags that he wasn't sure if his current shortness of breath was due to the illness spreading through his body, or from being suffocated by the sheer weight of cloth pressing upon him in every direction.

The bravado he'd felt when Colette had made her statement to make whoever had loosed this so-called disease on Dawnstar—on him—had all but vanished. Here, Grimnir felt like an overgrown baby, wrapped so tightly he could barely breathe, let alone move, lest he draw attention to himself and have Madena and Colette set upon him as though he was about to expire then and there.

He had never felt so helpless in his life. At least when his life had been in mortal peril those other times—Alduin, the Black Worm, Miraak and all the other dragon priests he'd fought over the past few years, to name but a few—he'd been able to defend himself with his magic. And if that wasn't enough, he was still enough of a Nord to know his way around a sword. But here … here, there was nothing he could do. It felt so ignominious, that a man who had survived so many battles, and wore so many scars as proof, should be done in by a mere _disease_ , of all things, and have nothing to do but let the battle between magic and biology play out, with his own body as the battlefield!

 _No_ , Grimnir thought resolutely, listening to the two Bretons continue to flesh out their plan—and slowly but surely, devising a plan of his own.

He would have a say in this battle yet—and neither magic nor malady would stop him from seeing it through.

* * *

_The White Hall_

_One hour later_

"I'm sorry," Jarl Skald the Elder said, a mixture of scorn and disbelief in his raspy voice, "you want me to _what_?!"

"Evacuate Dawnstar, my lord," replied Madena, her own voice muffled beneath fresh layers of cloth swaddled over her body. This only made Skald all the more uneasy—the Breton had never once referred to him as _her lord_ in all the time she'd served as his court mage. For her to start using this formality now, of all times … She was serious, Skald realized, and despite whatever thoughts he might have about Madena, she was still a part of his counsel.

"Jarl Skald, the townsfolk can no longer rely on one another to outlast the Knahaten Flu," Colette spoke up from alongside Madena. "Our city guard has been practically decimated—our reserves at Fort Dunstad, along with the regular patrols throughout the Pale, are the only means of defense we have left to us. The morale of the remaining population is beginning to wane—people are worried about looters, bandits or worse—and there's reason to believe the Flu may infect our food stocks if no one's healthy enough to keep a watch on them to make sure they're secure."

"And you think evacuating the town and resettling elsewhere will change their morale for the better?" Skald asked incredulously. "Some of us would call that accepting defeat!"

"And some of us would call it a better option than waiting for a slow and painful death," retorted Madena coolly. "No Nord deserves this Flu, Skald. I know you well enough to know this isn't the way you want to go."

This had a visibly profound impact on the lord of Dawnstar. Skald's lips were pursed together, and his eyes, spotted with cataracts, were half closed in silent contemplation. Madena knew how stubborn Skald could be—as stubborn as a Nord. In order for him to see reason, she would have to appeal to that stubbornness … that ironclad refusal to give up the ghost and sit waiting for certain doom.

It felt like an entire era had passed before Skald gave a long, low grunt of acquiescence. "Ar, if only you could fight the Flu with good old Nord steel," he sighed, before turning round. "Jod! Bulfrek! Stir your stumps and stand to!"

Jod—now the last remaining officer of Dawnstar's meager guard, with Frorkmar still in Windhelm—had appeared in a matter of moments, still in his uniform—although Colette did note the faint traces of wrapped cloth under his armored helm. Bulfrek took a little longer to rouse himself; it took Skald another shout and a threat that Jod would physically kick him out of his bed before the servant was present and accounted for. He, too, had covered himself head to toe in discarded rags.

"Pack whatever you can carry," Skald told them, "and leave the rest behind. Then go out door to door and tell the rest of the town to do the same. Essentials only—no jewelry, no crockery, I don't care if it's a family heirloom or not. We're leaving the town."

Neither Jod's nor Bulfrek's faces were visible, but both men swayed where they stood when they heard the last four words. "My lord?" Jod asked, sounding very dry indeed.

"Did you not hear me the first time?!" Skald cried out, raising his voice. "We're evacuating!"

It took a long moment for Jod to compose himself. "Where are we going?" he eventually mustered the will to ask.

"We were just about to say," Madena said. Although she'd been ready for the question, she was inwardly cursing the guard captain for bringing the question up now. This was the moment she'd been fearing; while she was glad Skald wanted to take the initiative in protecting his town, he'd also taken it too early.

There was nothing she could do, though—so she sighed, exhaled … and said, "We're going to Nightcaller Temple."

Silence. Everyone but Colette had turned in her direction—having discussed the plan previously, this was the only solution they'd been able to come up with. Fort Dunstad was too far away to go on foot, as was Solitude—and even if Morthal was close enough to the town, the whole place was still undergoing repairs from the Black Worm's attack on the town last year. There was also a lighthouse on the northern coastline, where Madena had been given to understand that a family of Redguards had recently moved in—but it, too, was too far away to be a suitable place to house sick and dying townsfolk, to say nothing of the northern chill that constantly permeated that part of Skyrim.

Madena explained all this with a patient air to her voice—that Nightcaller Temple was the only logical choice left to them, but it was apparent her worst fear had been confirmed. Skald was the only person in the room who'd yet to cover his face, so his was the only one that showed it—but it was clear even from this that everyone here but for Colette believed she'd taken leave of her senses.

"You know what happened out there, right?" Jod asked angrily. "That tower is haunted from cellar to ceiling and everywhere in between. I don't give a damn what that priest of Mara said—I'm not setting foot in that place!"

"Not too long ago, Dawnstar was plagued with nightmares," explained Madena to Colette, who nodded in reply—she'd heard reports of what had happened, but nothing as to what was causing them or how the situation had been resolved without any explanation. "A dark elf who followed Mara had said it was a temple to the Daedric priest Vaermina, and I saw enough of the imagery to know that he was right.

Another understanding nod from Colette; she herself knew enough about the Daedric arts to know Vaermina's sphere of influence included dreams, and nightmares as well.

"How he resolved it, I don't know," Madena went on, "but he brought a volunteer with him—some Imperial woman who'd stopped in for the night; I didn't get her name. Both of them went into the temple—but only the priest came back out. He didn't say anything beyond that—didn't say what had happened to her, or where she'd gone—he just packed his bags and left the town without even stopping to rest. We never heard from him again."

This struck Colette as immensely suspicious for many reasons—but none of them were worth asking for elaboration under the circumstances, she decided. So she forced the questions into the back of her mind, and gestured for Madena to go on.

"We have no reason to think it's still haunted, Skald," said the court mage. "No one's had any unnatural nightmares ever since that priest left Dawnstar. That's not to say some people are scared to sleep at night"—with good reason, she thought, thinking of the Dark Brotherhood—"but it's nothing more harmful than that."

"Madena's told me that the floor plan of temple is extensive," Colette added. "There's enough rooms and hallways in there that it should be able to sustain all of the remaining townsfolk. We may even be able to establish some semblance of society down there, if what I suspect about the place is true. Gardens for both food and alchemy, fuel for the forges and fires—I really do think that Nightcaller Temple may have everything we'll need to make sure the town survives."

"But for how long, though?" Skald wanted to know. "Let's say that we _do_ end up going to this place. Living in a fortress isn't the same as living in a town. Not all of us used to be soldiers, you know."

He cast a dark look at Madena, who remembered her days as a battlemage during the Great War all too well. "Frankly, I don't see why we can't just relocate everyone to the mineshafts in town," said the Jarl. "Hell, Iron-Breaker isn't used for much mining these days—everyone's gone over to work for Leigelf instead."

Leigelf owned the quicksilver mine just west of Dawnstar—at least, until the Knahaten Flu had forced him to shelve operations and retreat to his house. His ex-wife, Beitild, had run a competing iron mine inside city limits until last year, when she'd been found in her bed with a slit throat. Of course, there were rumors the Dark Brotherhood had been involved, and for a time, Leigelf had been suspected as the man behind it all; neither had parted amicably with the other, after all, and he himself had openly admitted he wasn't sad to see her go. But Leigelf denied any accusations of planning Beitild's death, and any rumors that continued to say so ultimately bore no fruit.

Meanwhile, quicksilver ore paid more septims by the piece, which had attracted every miner who'd worked under Beitild to the place; since then, as Madena explained, the Iron-Breaker mine had been largely abandoned, save for the odd tourist who already had a pickaxe to hand and nothing better to do with his time in town.

"And that's why we don't think the place is suitable," said the court mage. "No one really bothers to maintain the place—people just don't come here to mine the iron in those tunnels as often as they used to, and even when they do, they don't bother to say a word about what the state of the place looks like after they're done. So I'm ruling it out—I'm not putting the sick and dying in a death trap. Besides, even if it's structurally sound, it may still be too small to fit everyone in Dawnstar, anyway—both it and Leigelf's mine together, even, might be too small."

Skald considered this. It looked like a bitter pill to swallow for the old man. He turned his gaze to Jod. "Is there no other option?"

Jod thought. "Only that Dwarven ruin to the south—Mzinchaleft. And with respect, milord, I don't think I need to tell you why I think that's a bad idea."

Madena winced. That Jod would even _think_ of bringing up a place like that was a sign of how desperate Skald was becoming. Yes, the Jarl wanted to make sure his people weathered the Knahaten Flu—but not at the expense of his moral fiber. Unfortunately for Skald, he'd now found himself trapped between two abandoned ruins—one infested with bandits, metal _animunculi_ , and Divines only knew how many other horrors; the other, a haven for Daedric cultists who, however indirectly, had terrorized the nearby town for months, even _years_ on end, without any remorse for their actions. The only difference was that the latter had been assuredly cleansed—for if the word of a priest of Mara was a lie, Madena knew, then there truly was no hope for this world anymore.

Which was why, as she stared at the contorting face of her Jarl, Madena knew that there was only one decision left for Skald to make. "If I might borrow an old Breton saying, my lord," she said, feeling a faint tone of finality in her words, "'Better the Daedra we know than the Dwemer we don't.'"

This earned a long sigh from Skald. He slumped back in his throne, lips pursed like twin prunes—and he finally nodded. "Jod, get the word out. Every able-bodied Nord's to pack up and leave their homes in one hour. They're to take essentials only—food and drink and clothes. Hopefully there's enough of them in this temple that we won't have to worry about starving or dying of thirst any time soon."

Jod saluted. "Yes, milord. I'll pull some guards from the perimeter around the town—have them bring some horse-drawn carts to carry the sick."

"Good man," Skald rasped. "Bulfrek, get to packing. It'll be the same for you, myself, and Jod—take nothing with you that we won't need. Not like you've got much else to your name, anyway," he huffed under his breath, waving the servant off. "And _you_ "—he'd pointed a withered finger at Madena and Colette—"you'll be the first to leave."

"Why us?" Colette wanted to know.

"So you can make sure this temple we're going to is safe," Skald grunted. "I'm not having myself or my people set upon by more bad dreams the second we walk in that Nine-damned place."

Colette was about to protest, but Madena waved her off. "We'll get started on that right away, Skald," she said, catching the restoration instructor with a look. "By your leave?"

Skald gave a noncommittal grunt. That seemed to be enough for Madena, who ushered Colette out of the White Hall without looking back at Dawnstar's aging lord.

Only after she'd closed the door did she speak up. "Skald knows full well the place isn't haunted," said the court mage. "I was able to persuade him the first time I brought the subject up. What he really wants from us is to make sure _he's_ out of sight and out of mind."

Colette thought about this—and arched her eyebrows when it hit her. So Skald wanted them to take Grimnir into the Temple first; that way, he'd have his choice of room, far away from any prying eyes to suggest he might be just as infected as everyone else. The Jarl was still hellbent on trying to keep his people from being overcome by panic.

"I'll head over to Frida's and ask her for any curative potions or ingredients she's got in her stock," said Madena. "Actually," she added, thinking further on it, "make that any restorative agent she has on hand. We can use every edge in this. Once I've done that, I'll clean out my stocks of soul gems—I'll limit it to greater and grand if there's enough of them to provide one enchanted amulet for everyone in town."

"Then I'll get the ingots and gemstones," Colette replied. "That blacksmith you mentioned—Rustleif—should have a generous enough stock of them. I'd rather no one have to melt down their life savings in septims just for an amulet that might not even … "

She sucked air through her teeth, leaving the rest of her sentence unfinished. "But before we do any of that," she said, "the two of us need to put the word out. I'll handle finding any news on this Draconian Madstone—one of our scholars at the College has a knack for finding artifacts like this. Well, I say _find_ —but it's more like he's _connected_ with people who can find them. So I'll ask him to check his sources and see what they can dig up on the Madstone."

"All right—then I'll take care of the White Phial," agreed Madena. "We have some messenger hawks here—they can deliver messages much faster than ordinary couriers when the situation calls for them. I can send one to Windhelm, and you to Winterhold. I doubt they'll linger long enough to transmit the Flu—they're trained not to. They'll stay long enough to deliver their message, and come back to Dawnstar when they do."

"I see. Even so, it's best to be cautious," Colette remarked, as she began gathering some loose sacks along the way, with which they could take along whatever supplies they could find. "Whatever we send ought to be destroyed as soon as possible. Do you know any spells or enchantments that could do the job?"

"They don't teach anything like that up at Winterhold?" Madena asked, raising an eyebrow. When Colette shook her head: "Just a simple flame spell would be enough—barring that, a torch or a fireplace. Spells like what you have in mind aren't widely used—usually, agencies like the Penitus Oculatus would use them for security reasons. Maybe if they'd used them last year, there'd still be an Emperor," she added bitingly.

The two mages observed a brief moment of silence. Colette, being a senior member of the College, had sworn an oath of neutrality in the political affairs of Tamriel, much like the Greybeards of High Hrothgar. Nevertheless, the news of Titus Mede's assassination last year had been a shock to her system; combined with the Stormcloaks' independence from Imperial rule, her home of High Rock was now effectively cut off from the rest of the Empire. Even a neutral attitude could not lessen that sting.

Finally, Colette spoke again. "Let's get to it," she said. "The sooner we've got everything packed up, the sooner we can prepare Nightcaller Temple—and the sooner we can treat all these infected"—and Grimnir, she added in her head, knowing at a glance that Madena was thinking the same thing she was.

Even if they saved all of these people, would it still be worth it if the Dragonborn couldn't be saved with them?

* * *

_One hour later_

"Seren, Jod said no crockery," Rustleif said in exasperation as his wife attempted—for the third time in the past hour—to smuggle out the big pot he'd been using to cook all their broth in. "There's pots where we're going—and Arkay knows they're probably bigger than the one you keep trying to load up."

"But none of them are _this_ pot," Seren sighed, putting the large vessel aside on the table. "When I moved to Skyrim from Hammerfell, I carried my whole life in this—all my clothes, all my food, the money I'd been saving up just so I could come here … Rustleif, this is more than just a cooking pot to me. This is the only thing I have left of home."

Rustleif, deep down, knew that she was right. They'd torn up most of their clothes—including the ones Seren had brought from her old home—so they could cover every inch of their skin to ward off the Flu. Some of the older garments had been ripped into smaller strips so they could be wrapped around Makela. The baby seemed quite happy, in spite of the angry red dots that spread out from her lips, and now covered most of her neck and the top half of her breast ever since it had first appeared that morning.

Had it really only been less than a day? Rustleif wondered. It seemed like so long ago since his entire family had been turned upside down—when a simple wish to keep them happy and content with their lives in Dawnstar had turned into a feverish obsession to keep them alive and well.

He glanced once at Seren. Although Rustleif could not determine how far the rash had spread out from her breast ever since she'd exposed it this morning, he knew from other reasons that Seren was not faring nearly as well as their daughter; what remained of the breakfast Rustleif had tried to feed her along with the chicken broth had gone straight through her. The subsequent trip to the chamber pot had been an experience Rustleif did not want to repeat—let alone to clean up—and he suspected it would not be the last time he'd be taking care of his weakened wife in such an inglorious way.

Finally, he sighed. "All right—take it, then," Rustleif relented. "But keep it wrapped up so no one can see it. Jod'll be here any minute, and the man will throw us on your horsecart if he thinks we're holding up the evacuation!"

Seren, leaning on a walking stick (the closest thing they had in this house to a cane) beamed at him—though it was hard to tell through all the wrappings—and produced a number of sacks. All but one she stuffed inside the other—and then she slipped her favored pot inside, where it promptly disappeared amidst all the padding.

"Wan' stabby," Makela piped up just then.

Rustleif couldn't resist a chuckle—the last birthday present for their little girl had been a wooden sword that he'd painstakingly honed from a fallen oak branch—with just the right amount of curve to it to fashion it after the scimitars of High Rock. Makela had named it 'Stabby' almost immediately, and was almost never seen without it.

"I know you want 'Stabby', little warrior, but we have to leave home now," Rustleif said soothingly. "Daddy's got to take you and Mommy someplace where you can get better—where we can _all_ get better," he added, shooting as best a reassuring look at Seren as the torn cloth covering his face would allow.

Makela sniffled from under the mountain of swaddled cloth that covered her. "Bu … bu' stabby … "

"Stabby will be here when we come back, dearest," Seren told her sweetly, attempting to hoist her up with the arm that wasn't clinging to her traveling stick. It was very hard work; in the end, Rustleif had to help his wife finish it, and then make sure Makela was properly secured on her perch above Seren's shoulders.

"Besides," Seren added, once Rustleif assured her she was, "maybe there'll be another Stabby for you to play with while you and Mommy get better."

Makela, however, did not appear satisfied. "When go home?" she whined, and immediately Rustleif felt a thud in his stomach—as though an ebony weight had just appeared inside him and _dropped_.

He had no idea when they'd be back home again—or even _if_ they'd be home. He didn't how to answer that question—not without making Seren even more upset, and then Makela would get upset too …

He sighed. "When the Dragonborn says we can," was the best answer he could give. For who else, he thought, could save his family from this awful fate? Who else was there to turn to, at a time as bleak as this?

"Where _is_ the Dragonborn, come to think?" Seren asked. "No one's seen him after he tried to sink that thrice-cursed ship. He was with Madena and that other mage from the College—but there's been no trace of him or his pet dragon since. I wish I'd thought to ask when she'd come by for all those ingots you had in your supply—she was practically shaking you down with how she was behaving—"

She suddenly stiffened in apparent horror, and her cane began to wobble where she stood. "You don't think—!"

"No, Seren," Rustleif said immediately. "The Dragonborn wouldn't leave unless he had a very good reason."

"Like what?" Seren pressed on.

Rustleif could think of no reply—and the knock that finally sounded on the door a few moments later could not have been a more welcome distraction.

He knew who it was—and why he was here—even before he'd thrown open the door to reveal Jod on the threshold.

"It's time to pack up," the guard captain said, gesturing to the horsecart he'd brought with him. Rustleif was grateful to see he'd taken the liberty of helping them pack already; several of their bags now sat in the back of the cart, forming a simple cushion where Seren and Makela could rest up during the ride.

As Rustleif began to help finish up the packing process, he turned to Jod. "Has anyone seen the Dragonborn?" he asked.

"Aye," said Jod. Was it Rustleif's imagination, or did he see the man's arms flinch under his mail? Jod wasn't a man known to flinch, he thought—but then, this whole day had been hell on everyone; perhaps even he was feeling the strain. "He went on up with the mages, so I'm told—Madena and the Winterhold woman. Skald says they're to give Nightcaller Temple a once-over before he's satisfied we can go in the place."

"You saw them go up, then?" said Rustleif.

"Oh, aye." This time, there was no mistaking it—Jod had flinched at the question, even as he'd answered it. "They went up half an hour ago. I hope that's enough time for them to make the place presentable."

Rustleif bit his lip. That was around the time that Colette woman had demanded he turn over every single ingot of gold and silver he had in his stock. And there'd been a cart full of sacks that she'd hauled them onto. Madena had been there too—but Grimnir he hadn't seen with them. Had he simply gone on ahead, or … ?

He shook his head, groaning. This wasn't the time to think about such things. "I hope so, too," he eventually replied to Jod, before nodding to Seren. "Let's get that sack on, dearest, and we'll be off."

"Stabby!" Makela crowed from atop the Redguard's shoulder, and Rustleif couldn't help but laugh as he and Jod took up positions at the cart, lowering it so Seren and their daughter could board it safely.

Two minutes later they were off, following the other men, women and children of Dawnstar. Rustleif turned back for one last look at his house and forge, feeling the deep pit in his stomach widen even further.

 _I'll come back_ , he told himself. _I swear in the name of the Nine, I'll come back_.

And then he'd turned forward, to the path that lay ahead, curving over the cliffs and turning eastward, where the foreboding ruins of Nightcaller Temple loomed before them.

Rustleif knew the day would come when he would set foot inside his home again, and set his other foot on the forge and grindstone that he'd known since he was a lad. Until then, however, he knew there would be dark days ahead—whether his gut feeling about Grimnir and those mages was ringing true or not. Something was definitely up about them, and he hoped it wasn't what a dark voice in the corner of his mind was telling him.

 _I'll save this town with my own two hands if I have to_ , he thought, quickening his pace and setting his jaw. _Dawnstar needs me more than ever—and my family needs me most of all …_

* * *

Aboard the ship moored off shore, invisible eyes watched as the tiny stream of civilization finally departed Dawnstar, snaking into the distance and up the mountainside, slowly but surely.

The commander of the Crimson Ship was not close enough to see the individual people that formed that desolate band—whether on their own two feet or those of their comrades. Nor did she need to—it was enough to feel the anguish that had settled over the town like a pall, to feel the suffering that the Knahaten Flu was causing among them, for only the third time in a thousand years.

Of the Dragonborn, too, there had been no sign—and this had been especially pleasing; the commander had been close enough to him to see the whites of his eyes that one time—or at least, she might have if it weren't for that mask he'd been wearing. She knew of its origin, and the powers it possessed—and they would not be enough to save his life. It would offer no help to him, but would instead prolong his suffering until he tired of the pain, casting it off until the sweet release of death finally claimed him.

 _The Dragonborn is half dead already_ , thought the commander, _and he knows it, too—it will make his demise all the sweeter_. Idly, she wondered how many of the townspeople knew what had happened to the hero of Skyrim. Such was the strength of the Flu that had been loosed on the town that even she could not tell whether the sorrow she felt in their hearts was from the loss of their loved ones—or the loss of hope in its entirety.

 _Just like_ her, the commander knew, feeling a faint sense of triumph. It hadn't even been twenty-four hours, and she'd already claimed victory; she had singlehandedly broken Dawnstar more thoroughly than any company of battlemages or legions of soldiers could ever hope to accomplish.

In less than a day, the White Widow had satisfied its thirst for vengeance.

But, thought the spectral apparition, as a sepulchral moan sounded within the depths of the Crimson Ship, she knew there was still more work to be done. It would only be a matter of time until Dawnstar had been slain to the last man, woman, and child. And once they had …

The commander began to sing soothingly as another piteous wail reached her ears, and she disappeared below the decks with nary a sound.

_Send them all … to Oblivion's flame …_

* * *

_Three hours later_

Masser and Secunda had reached their zenith by the time the last cart had clattered inside. The rickety wooden door shut behind them with a _clacking_ noise that sounded more final than it had any right to be.

"Okay," said Colette to Madena. "Everyone's made it in safe. Glad they were able to get out one last pot of that broth before the evacuation took place; I thought this cold weather would have been the end of these people."

"Dawnstar's not the first place many people choose to live," remarked Madena. "But for all the misfortune we've had to bear these past few years, those that do make that choice are tougher sorts for it. Do you have the letters?"

Colette produced two thinly furled scrolls—each one as thin around as her little finger. "Do you have the hawks?"

Madena went to one of the carts that had been left outside the door. A rustling noise seemed to be coming from one of the sacks. She threw back the burlap, revealing two iron cages—each with a tawny, streamlined hawk looking at them with yellow eyes that looked just as sharp as their beaks.

A brief burst of calming magic from Madena ensured that the birds remained tame long enough for her to open the cages, and for Colette to secure one scroll each to their leg with a bit of twine.

Then, once that was done, Madena released the spell, and immediately the birds took off from their cages like arrows shot from bows. They streaked eastward, their retreating forms barely visible in the night sky.

Colette watched them leave, biting her lip. "You're sure they'll get there in time?" she asked.

Madena nodded. That would have to be enough. "Come on—let's help everyone get situated down there," she said, motioning back toward Nightcaller Temple. "Grimnir can wait a while longer—he said as much himself."

The restoration instructor followed after her, after taking one last look at the retreating messenger hawks, now just mere dots against the aurorae that lined the sky.

Had Colette lingered a few moments longer, however, she would have seen one of the birds suddenly drop out of the sky like a stone … and land against the side of an icy crevasse with a final squawk that would never reach her ears.

* * *

The black arrow had found its mark—straight through the heart of the majestic bird, cruelly pinning it to the gorge as its life slowly slipped away. It wasn't until the hawk finally slumped forward in death that something else moved into view, silently stepping out from where the arrow had been fired.

The woman was lithe and supple—and the leather armor she wore made every effort to accentuate her deceptively slight figure. The red-and-black ensemble hugged every inch of her body save for the neck up, where only a slit of moon-pale skin was exposed to the elements. From this peered a pair of dark eyes—darker than even the night in which she'd stalked her prey, hunted it down … and from whom she would now reap her reward.

The woman crept up the icy gorge towards the carcass of the messenger hawk. Already ice was beginning to form on the tips of its feathers—she would have to be quick to retrieve what she'd come here for.

From a leather holster, the woman now withdrew a knife. This she slit across the twine that bound Colette's scroll to the dead bird's leg. The woman unfurled the tiny message, its black eyes darting hither and thither across the strip of parchment.

And then, quite suddenly, her mouth—unseen under the black veil that covered it from the elements—turned upwards in a smirk. Sithis had smiled on her today, she knew.

It was time to fulfill her mission.

 


	7. VI

VI

_The College of Winterhold_

_22_ _nd_ _of Rain's Hand, 4E 204_

Enthir did not immediately hear the noise.

It was near midnight; the elf was sound asleep and snoring loudly. But the sound—a _tap-tap-tap_ on the stone threshold that supported the curtain of his tiny lodgings within the Hall of Attainment—pulled closed in the hopes of preventing anyone from disturbing him—persisted for several minutes until it finally roused him.

As the rapping noise finally registered, Enthir could not resist a prolonged groan. _Like clockwork_ , he thought dourly as he went to pull back the curtain.

Standing behind it was a timid-looking Breton in golden-brown robes. Arniel Gane—bald, unshaven, and as usual looking as though he hadn't been sleeping for the better part of a week—was fidgeting about constantly, as though only half of him wanted to be here. That wasn't far from the truth, Enthir thought; the last time they'd spoken, he'd come close to physically booting him off the tower so as to dissuade his fellow scholar from any more interruptions.

"Err … excuse me, Enthir," Arniel managed to stutter out. "Might I have a moment?"

Enthir was just awake enough to humor him. "What is it?" he grunted, making it plain that he did not appreciate being woken up at this ungodly hour.

Thankfully, Arniel was just familiar enough with the social graces to get the message. "Yes, err, apologies for the intrusion," he swallowed. "I was wondering, err, if you could possibly, ah … _procure_ a few select items for me?"

The elf leveled the flattest stare he could muster at him. "Really, Arniel?" Enthir said testily. "Because I seem to recall doing just that for you recently, at which point you assured me that you'd cover my expenses." Indeed, retrieving the powerful Staff of Tandil—back from the personage he'd just sold it to, no less—had just about exhausted both his pockets and his patience. "And _that_ , my nervous little friend, has not happened. Would you care to comment on that, perhaps?" he added, tapping his foot in a way that demanded an answer.

It did feel good on some level to see the Breton squirm, some dark part of Enthir thought. "Ah … hmm … yes. I, err, I was unaware that I had forgotten that," Arniel stammered. "I will—err, I mean, I'll take care of that as soon as possible."

"See that you do." Arniel seemed to take that as a sign that the encounter was over, and turned away at last, heaving an audible sigh of relief.

But Enthir, though he shut his curtain once more, waited for the Breton's footsteps to reach the stairs before calling out, "By the way—how is that _little project_ of yours coming along? Any progress worth mentioning?"

He'd said it partially out of a desire to keep on needling the dithering conjurer. But beneath the layer of vindictive pleasure, some level of Enthir genuinely was curious as to just what Arniel had been working on for the better part of the past two years—to the point that he'd thrown away his social prospects, business prospects, and just about everything else worth pursuing at a place like this.

Even though he couldn't see Arniel's face, Enthir could still hear the way he was nearly swallowing his tongue to get the words out—at least, the words he felt the elf deserved to hear. "Oh, that. Err, yes. It's … It's quite promising, I believe—definitely on the right track. Results, err, results should be soon."

 _Which means he's been able to do basically nothing_. Enthir couldn't decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing. " … Right," he eventually decided to say. "And … _what_ did you say the point of this little venture was?"

"Oh, no. Err, wouldn't do to say at all. Not, err, not now—not at all. I have far too many things to do still."

 _Damn_. "If you say so," Enthir shrugged—he'd spent enough time wheedling others for information that he knew he wouldn't be getting any more out of the tight-lipped Breton. So, deciding to change the subject, he decided to turn to another topic—one he found vastly more lucrative than whatever secretive project Arniel might be working on.

"You haven't heard any more about dragon sightings, have you?"

He could almost hear Arniel blanching at the sheer thought of it. "No—which is fine with me," said the Breton.

"A pity. You have any idea how much their fangs would be worth? Or even better—bottling their flame? The right buyer would pay an immense amount." Enthir already knew that the scales and bones of dragons could sell for quite a few septims if you could find the right buyer; lately, he'd even heard that some daring smiths had been figuring out ways to incorporate these scales and bones into armor—and, even more audaciously, into weapons.

Any other time, such trinkets would have been a royal gift—and even then, a very rare one indeed; dragons were so hard to kill that there was no point in scouring the countryside for any of them. But over the past few years, Enthir had been hearing enough of these tales that he could only assume that there was a growing market for the parts and paraphernalia of dragons—nor, he thought slyly, was it hard to guess the _source_ of that growing market.

Arniel, it seemed, possessed neither the imagination nor the acumen of an aspiring entrepreneur. "Bottle … their flame?" he repeated slowly, shaking his head. "I can't … No, I don't think I've any interest in that sort of thing."

Enthir forced a smile. "Too bad," he said, half to himself. "You could stand to know a little about business yourself, Arniel. Imagine what you could do with the right proposal to the right person." _Like bothering them instead of me_ , he thought only a little bit scathingly—the Breton, he conceded, could be surprisingly adequate at conversation when he wasn't talking about his life's work.

It was hard to tell if Arniel was giving the notion half as much thought as it deserved. Eventually, though, he shrugged. "Err, maybe some other time," he finally said. "Yes. Some other time."

Enthir heard his footsteps descend the stone staircase, then—followed by a pair of simultaneous grunts; it sounded like he'd collided with someone halfway down. This only made the elf shake his head—whatever project Arniel was working on had distracted him so thoroughly that it seemed he couldn't even focus on where he was going, and walked into a fellow mage in the process.

That fellow mage, as it happened, turned out to be Faralda—and Enthir knew this only because the Altmer had pulled back his curtain with such force that it was a wonder she didn't rip the whole thing off.

"What's this all abo—?!" Only two things kept Enthir's indignation at being denied his sleep once again in check: first, the knowledge that Faralda was one of the College's senior staff, and therefore superior in rank to him.

The second—and the stranger by far—was the sizable black patch of soot that currently adorned the front of Faralda's robes. It looked almost like they'd been singed with mage-fire.

Faralda, for her part, seemed not to care about the mess beyond brushing it off onto the floor, much to Enthir's annoyance. As she did this, she produced a small roll of parchment, pinched between thumb and forefinger, and extended it to the elf.

"This just came," she said briskly. "It's from Colette—addressed to you by name."

Enthir did a double take. "I thought Colette was in Dawnstar," he said.

"She still is," replied Faralda. "She had to send a messenger hawk—that's why her letter arrived so quickly."

That didn't answer Enthir's other question. "Why would she be writing to _me_ , though?" The elf had heard from some of his sources—types the College might consider more … _unsavory_ than others—of what was happening in Dawnstar before Tolfdir had confirmed it to the rest of the College earlier today. For obvious reasons, any mention of the word "flu" had been deemed verboten outside of College grounds—though there were other ways for private information to leak out to places you didn't want it to. Fortunately, though, it seemed Enthir's sources were also of the opinion this should be kept private—otherwise, all of Skyrim might be in a tizzy.

Faralda, in response to his query, merely shrugged—but it was a shrug Enthir had seen before: the Altmer knew more than she was letting on. Most likely because she'd read this letter already—there was no sign of a wax seal, after all—but it wasn't worth asking about. So the scholar, pushing the thought aside, merely unfolded the parchment to read the minute writing that had been inscribed within:

 

 

> _Enthir,_
> 
> _Our efforts in Dawnstar do not go well. The Arch-Mage was unable to neutralize the Crimson Ship that threatens the town, and so its people have been evacuated to a fortress on the nearby cliffs. To make matters worse, Grimnir and I have determined that this latest strain of Knahaten Flu is not entirely natural. There are traces of magicka that suggest the disease is being manipulated, presumably by someone on board that ship._
> 
> _I do not know how this is possible, nor do I believe I have the time to find out for myself. Our most important efforts lie in curing these sickened people, but at present there is little we can do besides stopping anyone from becoming infected in the first place, and to halt the disease from further spreading for those who already are. Though it pains me to say it, we cannot stop the Knahaten Flu—for now, we can only hope to contain it._

 

Enthir sank into his bed, letting the implications of the letter crash around him. Both the Arch-Mage of Winterhold _and_ the College's Master of Restoration had failed to keep the Flu from infecting the entire town? Nor could he believe the other thing Colette had mentioned—that someone or something could be magically controlling it.

While the elf had never claimed to come to Winterhold to unravel the deepest mysteries of Aetherius, that did not stop him from feeling at a loss as to how such a command of magic was possible. He decided to read on, hoping to take his mind off the pressing questions:

 

 

> _However, Madena, the court mage to Jarl Skald, has informed me of several possible answers that may lend some success to our efforts. At last report, one of these solutions, the Draconian Madstone, has been said to reside in a private collection within the Imperial city of Bruma. I need you to check and see if this is still the case; if so, I must ask you to petition for temporary ownership of the Madstone on behalf of the College. You are authorized to tell them that price is no object._
> 
> _We know better than to say it out loud, Enthir, but the College is well aware that you have just as many eyes and ears elsewhere as the Arch-Mage; therefore, I can think of no better person to investigate this than you. Time is of the essence, and the future of Dawnstar—indeed, of all Skyrim—is resting on you._
> 
> _Good luck,_
> 
> _Colette Marence_

 

Below that, Colette had added a postscript:

 

 

> _Burn the bird_.

 

Enthir's gaze flicked to Faralda; what little soot remained on her robes was immediately explained. Evidently Colette—and Faralda by extension—did not want to run the risk of the Flu spreading under any circumstances.

Neither elf said anything for a long time. Both stood there, each sizing up the other, looking for a reaction.

Faralda broke the silence with a single word. "Well?"

Enthir could only swallow. Already he was calculating the time it would take to relay these events to some of his more _trustworthy_ contacts in Riften—maybe Falkreath, too, he mused, since it was closer to Bruma, although farther away from Winterhold. From there, they would have to send more letters to their own contacts in Cyrodiil.

Then there was the expected time it would take to get a reply there and back again. Couriers were more reliable, but far too slow. Hawks, while many times quicker, were not as available in Winterhold as they were elsewhere. The closest rookery was the Palace of the Kings in Windhelm—and even those were for official letters, to be sent with dispatch when ordinary couriers would not suffice.

Something told him that his contacts wouldn't have much access to things like that. Cyrodiil was a different story, and with luck, that could work to their advantage—but Enthir's contacts within the province itself would have to do with couriers on foot.

Cyrodiil to Windhelm and back again would take almost half the week—and even that was if the roads _and_ the sky were clear. Going by horse rather than on foot might shave off a day—he knew Windhelm had its own stable, and one better devoted to horses bred for long distances—but that was still a two-day journey at the very least.

In two days, for all Enthir knew, the letter in his hand might be all that remained of Dawnstar.

Yet he could see no other alternative, and so he nodded at Faralda. "I'll look into it," he replied to the high elf, who left without saying another word.

Now, all further thought of sleep forgotten, Enthir cleared off his desk, fetched some new sheaves of parchment, his best quills and several bottles of ink, and—thinking further of it—a bottle of alto wine.

Then, feeling the warmth of the drink fill his veins, the elf began to write—knowing full well that the fate of an entire province might be resting on his skinny shoulders.

* * *

_Nightcaller Temple_

The situation in Dawnstar had turned into a stalemate.

If an outsider, unfamiliar to the area, were to approach the deserted town at this very moment, they would have discovered the reason for that soon enough: a huge crimson dragon, perched atop a crumbling tower—the highest ground in the area—as dragons often did, so as to lord over its perceived domain. If said outsider was brave enough to linger after seeing this sight, they might also have followed the dragon's unmoving gaze, and beheld a ship as huge and crimson as the dragon that stared it down.

Neither had elected to attack the other—or perhaps neither _could_ attack the other at all. There was no one to be seen aboard the scarlet-tinged vessel—and it was a _dragon_ , after all—but if this was true, why was the dragon refusing to attack the ship? No one seemed to know—and even if the guards that continued to patrol the outskirts of the town had any theories of their own, they were not likely to tell; they were hardly even speaking to each other, let alone any curious outsiders, as they stood their vigilant watch around the curious scene.

Thus had been the state of affairs in Dawnstar for the past three days, ever since its residents—sickly or otherwise—had been herded into Nightcaller Temple like so much cattle by the efforts of Colette and Madena. Of Grimnir there had been no sign—although the two mages had gone to a great deal of effort to make sure his location was not discovered, whether accidentally or deliberately. They still did not wish to reveal that the Arch-Mage of Winterhold had contracted the same disease that was ravaging the townsfolk—though they were not confident the secret would remain as such for long.

To that end, they had moved Grimnir to the lower chambers of the fortress—not the lowest; in scouting out the fortress, both mages had discovered that multiple levels provided a vantage point of the keep's lowest level. Deciding that curious eyes might see him, and thus wonder why Grimnir was down there, they'd instead kept him in an antechamber between the lowest level and the winding corridors that led upwards to the outside world.

Even though both Colette and Madena knew there was nothing down here that had called the place home before them—both scryes and physical searches (mostly at Jarl Skald's request) had seen to that—they still knew most of the town's populace still had superstitions about going too far down into the bowels of Nightcaller Temple. Indeed, it creaked and groaned so loudly in places that several of the oldest citizens swore blind the place was still haunted, and they cared little for the words of mages, choosing to stay at the topmost parts of the keep for their own safety.

Once the townspeople had been assured the place was (relatively) safe, and Grimnir out of sight—Madena and Colette had spread the word that there was a well-stocked alchemist's laboratory and an equally full-to-bursting enchanting chamber, and that they and the Arch-Mage would be spending their time inside to continue working on thwarting the spread of this disease—attention then turned to supplies, and it was here that the mages had stumbled upon what was to be their first good news in the past twenty-four hours—though whether it _completely_ mitigated the events of those past twenty-hour hours would be a matter of debate.

As Madena had described to Colette, the previous inhabitants of Nightcaller Temple had concocted large quantities of a potion of unknown composition, then released its miasmatic vapors throughout the fortress as a method of prolonging their lives. It did so, ostensibly, by sending them into a period of indefinite stasis—slowing their heart and brain functions, thus sending them into a sleep so deep that virtually nothing from the outside world could awaken them, short of the "miasma", as Madena referred to it, being dispersed or otherwise interfered with.

Prior to this, Colette had seen several instances of fresh food and drink—particularly apples, bread, and other perishables—and wondered how such a thing could be possible. If this place hadn't been touched for a month, as Madena had claimed—and then years ago before that—then how in Julianos' name had any of it been spoiled beyond recognition? How did this food still look as though it had just been cooked or plucked off the tree?

The answer, it transpired, turned out to be the miasma itself.

Such was the quantity of the gaseous fumes dispersed throughout the temple that they had managed to permeate every nook and cranny of the fortress. Everything—from the food to the overgrowth to the stones themselves—had been exposed to the miasma. Now even these, it seemed, were all but impervious to the ravages of time; where most food went bad over the course of a week, it would take much longer for any foodstuffs tainted by the gaseous potion.

"But surely that doesn't automatically mean it's safe to eat?" Colette had asked, when Madena had cut open a seemingly fresh apple to demonstrate her hypothesis. "We don't know what side effects this 'miasma' might have if it's ingested. It's not the same as simply _breathing_ the stuff."

Madena had merely shrugged, biting into her half of the apple with a crunch that almost— _almost_ —answered a shocked Colette's question. But the Breton need not have worried, for the court mage had offered the other half to Colette with no apparent ill effects; Colette herself had scryed Madena's body after that, just to be sure.

One minute (and half an apple) later, Colette was forced to agree that the food within Nightcaller Temple was still fresh enough to eat; with nothing to show for it—save for, perhaps, feeling a little more sleepy than usual. "Although I still don't see how this is possible," she'd said, shaking her head as if to ward off the ramifications of what this meant for them.

"If Nurelion writes back, I can always ask him then," Madena had dryly replied. "Until then, I'm sure there's a book in the library that might explain in better detail."

"No, thanks." They'd encountered the library earlier; whether by accident or design, just about every tome within its walls had been burnt beyond recognition. The Bretons had taken one look at the ravaged space and instantly agreed there was nothing worth salvaging inside—whether for answering their question on the unknown miasma, or of helping to combat the Knahaten Flu.

Once it became clear that the miasma-laced food posed no further threat to the townspeople's health, though, both mages had left the matter of rationing it out to Jod, under orders from Skald. Properly divided, Jod had claimed, there was enough food within the temple to last them a fortnight before they would have to rely on foraging or hunting parties.

The implication was clear: Colette and Madena had two weeks to completely cure the townspeople.

Maybe— _likely_ —less.

So they'd immediately set to work. Madena and Frida had assumed command of the laboratory almost straightaway; as they had more knowledge of alchemy than Colette. She, therefore, took it upon herself to use the enchanting apparatus within the fortress as often as possible; Colette had further approached the blacksmith, Rustleif, to assist her in smelting any artifacts that would suit her needs. Grimnir would divide his duties between them when necessary—they couldn't have him staying out of sight for _too_ long, lest the populace get suspicious—but for most of the day, the Arch-Mage was kept under lock, key, and the care of both Bretons, his iron mask of Hevnoraak being the only visible part of him under the blankets he constantly wore.

So began the stalemate.

Karl and Gjak, both formerly of Iron-Breaker Mine, had been the first casualties. Unbeknownst to Colette and Grimnir, Gjak had suffered a fall on the treacherous, snow-covered route to Nightcaller Temple, and broken his leg in the process. Karl, in helping Gjak to his feet, had used some of the strips of clothing covering his face to bind Gjak's injury, for nothing else was to hand. Though he'd replaced his strips soon after, the damage had been done; by the time Gjak learned that Karl had been diseased—and that the strips he'd been administered were thus infected as well—he'd already passed the point of no return.

By sunrise the next day he'd succumbed, despite Colette's and Madena's best efforts to heal him, and his body was swiftly cremated with little fanfare. Karl, blaming his negligence for what had been done, had been overcome with grief. Whether it was this or the Flu—or the prodigious amount of mead he'd ingested over the next three hours—that contributed to his death that afternoon, no one could be certain. Nor did anyone want to take chances; Karl's body was immolated before the ashes of Gjak were even cool enough to gather. The smell of mead about him had persisted long after his remains had also been reduced to ash.

These two deaths had underscored for everyone the magnitude of what they were dealing with; Jarl Skald wasted no time in appointing Jod and Bulfrek to make sure that everyone inside Nightcaller Temple followed a strict regimen of order and cleanliness in hopes of deterring the Flu's spread further still. Mead, and all manner of drink save for water, was rationed to one bottle a day except where needed as medicine. Jod soon found himself personally inspecting the food (mostly Skald's own) so as to make sure it was properly cooked or prepared, and thus impossible to harbor any more disease. Latrines were erected in several of the more isolated chambers, and were expected to be kept regularly clean as well. Bulfrek was heard to despise the chore on more than one occasion; evidently the servant had taken too much to his newfound authority that Skald had delegated the implementation of this inglorious task to him so as to bring his head back down to Nirn.

But even these new edicts did not fully halt their misfortunes: one day later, Fruki and Lond, who'd worked in the Quicksilver Mine, had ventured to the shoreline north of Dawnstar; they'd been overheard wanting to search for oysters and clams for additional food. That was the last time anyone saw them alive; rumors circulated that in their foraging, they'd trekked too close to the area where the Dark Brotherhood was said to have made their new stronghold. No one could say for sure if the disease had claimed them before the Brotherhood had—or if they'd claimed them at all—but again, as with Karl, it didn't matter: Jarl Skald, his face riven between anger and grief, had forbidden anyone to leave the temple's shadow without adequate means of defense—and by dawn the next day he'd posted two of his remaining guards at the entrance to the fortress to ensure that this particular decree was enforced.

Rustleif in particular had taken the loss of Fruki and Lond as a great blow indeed; they were regarded throughout the town as two of the finest smelters in either of the town's two mines. Indeed, they had been assisting him in his work to that end, smelting gold and silver into ingots that he would then melt in his forge, thereby allowing him to fashion the jewelry and trinkets Colette would later enchant. With them gone, however, Rustleif had little choice but to assume their duties on top of his own. This meant that his time with wife and child was greatly reduced, which caused him no less distress than before; his face was constantly drenched with sweat now, no matter how close or far he was to the forge in the fortress that he'd claimed for himself.

Yet even as the townsfolk continued to fall ill, or fall to illness, Colette and Madena could sense a feeling of resolve beginning to surface within the survivors of Dawnstar. They'd expected some rumblings of dissent upon hearing Skald's rules—which in any other time might have been decried as draconian—but instead, everyone took each decree in stride, and began adjusting to their new lives with gritted teeth and determined hearts. It was almost a wonder to watch, Colette thought; the spectacle of witnessing a town shattered by disease would make for a good read on stormy days—though she grudgingly conceded Skald, whose duties as Jarl often required confidence and public speaking, had a more emotional command of his words than she, a glorified doctor.

Nevertheless, as time went on, and hardships were endured one after the next, Colette continued to labor away at her duties. She and Rustleif together were producing roughly two enchanted amulets per day, and twice as many rings as well. Charms to resist the spread of disease were commonplace—but every so often, Colette would draw upon her knowledge of this particular strain of Flu, and its magickal properties, to create trinkets that could also resist magic in general. She was thankful that she and Madena, being Bretons, possessed an innate resistance to magic in their blood—perhaps this on its own might be enough for them to survive the Flu, if indeed the magic imbued within it was what made it so deadly. But she was less thankful for her substandard enchanting skills, which might otherwise have allowed her to imbue a single artifact with resistance to both disease and magic; Colette doubted that even Sergius Turrianus, the College's unofficial master of enchanting services, had the level of artistry required to fashion such powerful trinkets.

She was still less thankful for the quality of soul gems she'd found after scouring Nightcaller Temple of the pinkish- and bluish-colored crystals. These were of distinctly lower quality than she would have preferred, but in combining a lesser-enchanted ring with a lesser-enchanted amulet, the level of protection both offered was akin to a single commonly-enchanted artifact. This knowledge allowed her to use up the more numerous "inferior" soul gems so as to conserve the few greater and grand gems for when they were needed most—though it did mean a larger amount of work on Rustleif's part, so both he and Colette had had to manage their resources more carefully than usual, lest one of them cause more unnecessary labor for the other than they could handle.

Laboring, too, were Madena and Frida; they'd been hard at work making more cure-disease potions than Colette had ever seen in one place. Though she knew they wouldn't stop the Flu outright, Frida had shared her belief with Madena that simple curatives of charred skeever hide and mudcrab chitin might be enough to further slow the effects in tandem with the chicken broth Seren was continuing to mix. Hawk feathers, abundant by the dozen in the belfry where Skald was keeping his messenger birds—their only means of communication in and out of the temple—were also known to possess some measure of curative effect in a pinch. It became an unspoken fashion among the townspeople to carry a few feathers on their person for this reason—although Skald had had to curb this trend as well, citing his worry that the hawks themselves might be afflicted, or otherwise come into contact with the Flu. That did not stop everyone from boiling the feathers along with their water; however, as this was already a commonly practiced and historically reliable method of cleaning, the Jarl did not protest.

It was, Colette later thought, perhaps one of the most defining examples of Nordic kinship and solidarity she'd seen with her own eyes. The town of Dawnstar—faced with the loss of their own men and women by death, disease, and Divines only knew what else—had risen to the occasion magnificently. No one demanded more than what their fellow man received—not even Skald, who Colette had wondered might get the lion's share of preferential treatment, however justified the reasons might be—and neither did anyone take more than what they deserved.

In some ways, the Knahaten Flu had proven to be the greatest of equalizers—no one, however their status, could escape the clutches of Death for long. Seeing the townsfolk band together the way they had to combat what was, by all accounts, a sentence of death—more powerful than even the plague of a thousand years past—made Colette think that the College's intervention, along with the townsfolk's aid, might actually help Dawnstar survive this plague.

Then, shortly before dawn on the twenty-fifth of Rain's Hand—the third day of their self-imposed exile—Madena let Colette in on some disheartening news.

"Seren's condition is getting worse," the court mage had told her without preamble. The restoration master had been laying out the soul gems she would be using for enchanting today's batch of jewelry. Frida had busied herself with melting snow she'd gathered for more water to boil, and Madena's latest batch of curatives was stewing in the meantime—which had provided the two Bretons with a moment to talk in private.

Colette had blanched at this. "How bad is it?"

"Bad enough," replied Madena. "Rustleif's tried to shake her awake about ten times already—but she's not left her bedroll." Her tone was grave. "I think we have to assume she's too ill to fulfill her duties any longer."

Colette didn't need to see Madena's face under her wrappings to know what she was thinking: this was a serious blow. Without Seren to cook the broth that was to slow the symptoms of the Flu, the town would swiftly find themselves fighting a losing battle. And there was also Rustleif to be concerned about as well: with the knowledge that his wife's life was hanging in the balance—and his young daughter with it—it was going to throw him off _his_ work for sure, which would quickly leave Colette in the lurch as well.

It was a classic chain reaction—before long, the remnants of the town as a whole would no longer be able to fight off the Flu.

She stopped to think. "Is there anyone else who could brew the broth in Seren's place?"

Madena considered this. "Only two people that I know of—and even then, I'm not optimistic; Seren wasn't especially close to either of them."

At Colette's invitation to continue, she explained: "Thoring's the owner of the Windpeak Inn in town. He took over from his late wife about five years ago—cooks, cleans, tends bar. Some of us had been worried he was working himself hard, that it took two people to do what he himself had chosen to take over."

She didn't sound too confident—and Colette felt much the same way: while this Thoring's work ethic was to be admired, working _too_ hard could be a hazard to your health if you weren't careful.

"How bad is _his_ condition?" asked the mage.

"Better than Seren's." Madena punctured her words with a sad sigh and a shrug. "But it's still bad enough that our only other option is his daughter, Karita. She's the town bard—sings about as well as Thoring can cook. But I've seen her worry about her father's health before—and I've also seen her sneaking looks at the inn's cooking pot every so often when she wasn't putting on a show for what little clientele our tiny little town used to get. It's not hard to guess that she's training herself to take over the inn—on the off chance that Thoring _does_ end up working himself into an early grave."

"If the Flu doesn't beat him to it."

The mage could practically hear Madena biting her tongue. "I don't think we have much of a choice," sighed the court wizard in exasperation. "Everyone else in this town that can pull their own weight around here is pulling nearly double that as it is. We've already lost four people in three days, Colette—and while I'd like to say things could be much worse than that, Dawnstar's a small town. _There aren't four more people to spare_."

Colette, being part of a town that had one foot in the grave itself, knew she was right. "I'll talk to her," she assured her fellow mage. "After that, I can work on getting Seren healthy again—or barring that, cogent enough for her to pass on everything she knows to Karita. Although," she added, "like you said, Dawnstar is a small town. Everyone seems to know everyone in places like this—so it could be that Karita's heard all about Seren by now."

Madena shrugged again.

"What about Rustleif?" Colette pressed on. "He's got more of a stake in this than anyone else. I can't say I envy him right now—no father should have to have this happen to his wife _and_ daughter."

"I can talk to him after Karita," said Madena. "I've known the man better than you, and for longer. That's not to say it won't be easy," she admitted with a sigh, "but Dawnstar's fate is in his hands now. I hope he comes to realize that soon enough."

On that ominous note, neither of the mages spoke beyond that. Madena excused herself a few minutes later; Frida was bound to be back by now, and wondering where she was. Colette didn't look back at her; her attention was focused solely on the soul gems and meager jewelry in front of her.

She now laid one of each onto the five-sided table to her right, placing her hands carefully on the faintly glowing runes imbued into the ancient wood. As she concentrated on her enchanting, Colette had time enough to send a quick prayer to the Divines, hoping against hope that this newest setback to the hopes of Dawnstar's people would be dealt with.

Though it pained her to even think of it, they needed a miracle now.

* * *

Nowhere had the stalemate that currently gripped Dawnstar become more manifest than inside Grimnir's own body.

Madena's footsteps had long since echoed into silence by the time Grimnir Torn-Skull snapped his single eye open. The simple action was hard work: a combination of Hevnoraak's heavy iron mask, the injuries he'd suffered the previous year—and the Flu that his body's defenses, both biological and magickal (along with Hevnoraak's own), were currently battling to a deadlock—had sapped him almost completely of his strength. It was all the Arch-Mage could do to merely roll over on the floor where he'd been sleeping so as to make himself more comfortable.

He had moved very little since Colette and Madena had—for want of a better term— _incarcerated_ him inside what was little more than a disused cellar, bare but for the scant piles of hay and skins that he'd cobbled together to use as a bedroll. Everything that had occupied this space before had been taken out, partially to give Grimnir more space with which to live in, but mostly as a precaution. No one knew just how contained the Flu inside him really was—and none less than Grimnir himself.

He could not moan or even cough in his discomfort, for he had soon learned how the rock-hewn walls around him echoed with the slightest of rustles from his robes, and the last thing he wanted the people of Dawnstar to hear was the notion that he, too, was sick with the same Flu that had forced them to flee to this place. The straw and animal skins had helped to deaden some of this sound, but Grimnir was still weak in body—he could not betray this weakness to the townsfolk.

Weakness in the body, however, is far from the weakness of the _spirit_ —and all the while he'd lain in this cellar, enfeebled to near-insensibility, Grimnir's spirit was still burning with an unquenchable flame. He'd had no choice, at first; Colette and Madena had put out the story that he was not to be disturbed—and who in their right mind, the people had thought, would disturb a dragon? The lie had burned his insides like acid—and the Arch-Mage had no doubt that both Bretons felt the same way—yet what choice did he have in the matter?

But as he'd lain there, drained of his body's strength, Grimnir's one remaining ear, scarred as it was, still managed to pick up the many noises the abandoned fortress made—all the groaning of the timber that supported the stone walls, and the moaning of the winds that came in from the north, thrashing at the walls and letting in drafts where the mortar that bound those stones together had crumbled from sea spray, ice, and time.

He'd listened to all these, and over time, as the people of Dawnstar had settled in to their progressively more permanent home-away-from-home, Grimnir's ear had started to discern more and more noises. Sometimes, when the winds were quiet, he could hear the voices of different people. That was mostly how he got his news, even before Colette and Madena spared a few moments of their time to keep him informed. He'd never yet told them how he managed to catch wind of the four that had died to the Flu ever since the town had been abandoned. Perhaps, he thought bitterly, they thought it was just the Dragonborn being the Dragonborn.

He'd listened to them, aye; Grimnir had listened to an entire town acclimating to the same situation he was in. This fortress had become a prison for the entirety of Dawnstar—and he wondered if he was the only person that knew it.

Now, as he continued to lay prone on the flattened pile of straw, Grimnir was still digesting the news he'd listened to just now—of Seren, the main force behind Dawnstar's resolve to fight the Knahaten Flu and win, becoming too sick with it herself to keep on fighting that fight. The constant trickle of news over the past few days had stoked his spirit and kept it burning—like a few puffs to bolster a fresh flame on kindling—but it now seemed as if that flame of hope was about to be snuffed out.

Could he stop this?

Could he save them?

Grimnir had been thinking on this—and thinking. He'd thought about it until he could no longer muster the energy to think. Because he'd been listening even before this, too; he'd listened to Colette and Madena talking about their plan to evacuate the town before it had even come into fruition. And he'd listened to the stories of the artifacts they'd swapped—the Draconian Madstone from the days of the Akavir, and the supposedly bottomless White Phial of Curalmil. Grimnir had read of those artifacts, too—how could he, the Arch-Mage, neglect to do so?—and also knew of the implications their abilities had for the people of Dawnstar … for _him_.

Yet one small problem still presented itself: the location of these artifacts. Grimnir knew where the Madstone was, and wasn't happy about it; Cyrodiil was too far away for him to leave without being noticed. And the White Phial's location was lost as well; it seemed the only person who might know was this Nurelion he'd overheard them talking about, who apparently had an obsession with the Phial.

But was it worth the effort to wheedle that out of him, too? Windhelm was much closer than Cyrodiil, to be sure, but even this option left him with only two choices—both of them bad. If Grimnir stole away, he'd run the risk of his absence being noticed. Odahviing could fly him there, aye, and shorten his trip considerably—but that would rob Nightcaller Temple, and all inside, of the sole defense it possessed against the Crimson Ship that held them hostage. Even if he was lucky enough to just walk in and be handed that amulet—the odds of which previous experience told Grimnir were hovering somewhere around zero—the risk of leaving a sick village undefended for even a few hours, against a foe that even _he_ didn't understand, was not worth taking.

Yet the Arch-Mage knew that if he stayed in this room and did nothing but waste away in this cellar, while waiting—hoping, _praying_ —for the stalemate inside him to resolve on its own, the stalemate outside this temple would continue—and Dawnstar would be doomed to die a slow death, no matter the result of _that_.

Which meant that they needed a fourth option, and they needed it _fast_.

So Grimnir Torn-Skull, sapped and stumped though he was, continued to think of one.

* * *

"Let me see if I've got this straight."

Karita's voice, muffled with cloth, still radiated skepticism five minutes after Madena had pulled her aside and told her everything—everything the court mage had decided she deserved to know, anyway. "Seren's sick with the Flu. That much I understand. But you want _me_ to take her place?"

"You're the only one of us who's healthy enough to whip up something worth eating," Madena said, with a slightly apologetic look at Colette. "I know what you're going to say—that Thoring's the cook in the family. But he's been starting to show the first signs of infection himself, Karita. We can't trust him to work over a pot, either."

Karita took several deep breaths—in, then out. "Even so—what makes you think you can trust me over him?"

"And you're his daughter," Madena pressed on. "I can only imagine how much it meant to him, to teach you what your mother couldn't. I think, deep down, he thinks you can be more than just a bard—a glorified serving girl."

Karita drew back, and for a moment Madena wondered if she'd overstepped; it had been more than five years, after all, since the winter that had claimed her mother's life. Some hurts just never went away—and it had been Katria's mother, after all, who'd used the knowledge she'd gained in her time at the Bard's College of Solitude to teach her daughter to carry a tune and an instrument, just as she had in those happier times.

"I don't know if he's ever noticed," she finally said, her usually melodic voice now suddenly melancholic. "Sometimes he has to tend to business in the middle of cooking more food. He has me watch the pot, aye, if he needs to be at the counter. Maybe I stir it every few minutes or so. But I never let him catch me doing anything more than that."

"'Let him'?"

"When you work long enough at an inn, you start to notice things. A pinch of salt here, a dash of herbs there. The right amount of vegetables needed for a garnish, the right time to leave a side of meat over the fire. He never knew then that I was watching him when he worked. Maybe he knows now—there were enough mess-ups that he had to have figured something was off. But my father taught me more about running an inn than he realized."

Karita straightened up. "So about this broth. That's all Seren's been making, right—just regular chicken broth?"

Inwardly, Madena smiled—not that it would have mattered; her face was just as covered as Katria's own.

"It's a Redguard recipe," she explained, leading her out of the hallway they'd been conversing in. "I'll see if I can wake Seren up long enough to help you write it down … "

* * *

"There's no need to ask me how I'm feeling, Madena."

Rustleif's voice, bitter was it was, seemed to teeter on the brink of collapse. At least one of his eyes had been trained on Seren at all times ever since he'd learned the news of his wife's deteriorating condition. Even now, as he shoveled in fresh fuel for his smelter, he was watching the prone form of his wife, still clutching Makela as if the toddler was her only lifeline. Karita crouched beside her, listening to everything the Redguard was telling her—occasionally nodding, or asking a question that was unfortunately drowned out by the noise of Rustleif's forge.

"I'm sick," he sighed heavily, leaning on his shovel. "I'm tired. I haven't felt like this ever since we had those nightmares." He did not elaborate, but the anguish was visible even through his facial wrappings—dingy with soot and smoke, and half-soggy with his own sweat. The visceral image told the Breton what Rustleif could not: what he was going through right now felt worse than any nightmare—because it was more real than any nightmare, supernatural or otherwise, could ever hope to be.

"But I know that if I stop now, things will only get worse," he went on, wheeling over a cart half full with rocks that shimmered in the firelight with the telltale sign of silver ore. "If I lose Seren, who will take care of Makela? I can't be both her mother and her father, yet still have to provide for everyone in this Nine-forsaken fortress. But if Makela succumbs to this damnable Flu before she does … " He swallowed. "That little girl means more to Seren than all of Nirn. I lose my daughter … she loses her whole world."

"You can't let them consume your thoughts like this, Rustleif," Madena tried to soothe him. "You're a wonderful husband, and a wonderful father. But you're providing for more than just your family right now—"

"Damn it all, you think I don't know that?!" Rustleif nearly slammed the shovel to the floor in his anguish—but just as quickly, he'd doubled over, clutching his stomach, breathing heavily. Madena, alarmed, rushed to his side, fearing the worst—but the blacksmith immediately threw up an arm, halting the court mage in her tracks.

"I'm okay! … I'm okay," he managed to gasp out. "Just can't strain myself too much. Got enough to do around here as it is."

Madena bit her lip. "Do you need help?"

"Who's left to help me?" Rustleif shrugged helplessly. "Miners know their ore, and know how to get that ore—but that's all they know how to do. Borgny and Bodil—Talos bless them, they live and breathe in mines, but they can't smelt a pebble of iron worth a damn. And don't even get me started on Edith. Give her a pickaxe and any good-size vein, and she's practically a dwarf in hacking it out. But there's no vein of ore for her to mine in here, is there?"

He shook his head. "It's about all I can do to take them on as runners, Madena," he groused. "Can't risk leaving my forge long enough to bring your friend Colette what she needs to do her work. And I don't know what I'll do if we lose any more miners to this Flu, either. Only Seren knew enough about actually working ore and shaping metal to help me out at the forge. With her the way she is now … "

Madena understood—and decided to voice her next question then. "Could you train any of them?"

Rustleif drew back. "Train them?"

"Rustleif, this is no time to be humble." Madena crossed her arms. "Every blacksmith has their own trick of the trade to stay in business."

"Yeah, well, I never got a lot of business back in town," said the Nord. "Jarl Skald didn't just come to me for his sword because he trusts me to do a good job. He came to me because I'm the _only_ one who can do the job. The only one he can bother to visit, anyway—man his age doesn't like to go far beyond his own doorstep."

He began to inspect some of the silver ore on the cart, tossing the shinier pieces onto a pile that Madena presumed would be melted down later on. It was evident he was doing this to give himself time to think.

Finally, five or six pieces later, he sighed. "Aye, I know a trick or three," he admitted. "But that's about all I know to set myself apart from anyone else. They're supposed to be family secrets—don't usually teach them to outsiders unless they've done enough right by me."

He hefted a piece of ore in each cloth-wrapped hand. "Only I won't have much of a family left if I don't pass this on, will I? Is that what you're going to tell me?"

Madena said nothing.

That seemed enough of an answer for Rustleif. "Find Borgny for me," he told her. "I don't want any old iron miner for what you're asking me to do, and Edith's better suited for a pick than a shovel anyway."

The court mage nodded. "Thank you."

Rustleif shook his head. "Don't thank me yet," he said shortly. "Thank me when we're all cured."

Madena noted the use of the word "when"—not "if"—and it was because of this, perhaps, that she left Rustleif's forge in higher spirits than before. She stole one last look at Karita as Seren continued to instruct her, and made for the main hall to find Colette and tell her the promising news.

But barely a minute later, Colette had found her instead; she was making her way towards the court mage at a half-run, half-walk. Madena didn't need to see her face to know that she was in a hurry—and even if she could, she was more interested in the curved slip of paper Colette was holding in her hand—a freshly opened scroll.

"A hawk just flew in from Winterhold," the restoration master muttered in an undertone. "There have been some recent developments in our little _side project_."

She paused only to hand Madena the scroll. "And I'm afraid the news isn't good."

Madena unrolled the parchment, inspecting the tiny writing within. She only needed to read the first few lines to know that Colette was right. The news in this letter was anything _but_ good.

Instantly, her good mood had evaporated. "What do we do?"

Colette looked equally worried. "I don't know."

* * *

_That night_

Nightcaller Temple was much quieter after dark.

Sniffles and coughs punctuated the silence every now and again, and the stone halls still creaked in the incessant winds that buffeted the fortress from the north. But without the usual _clinks_ and _clangs_ and cacophonous clamor created by a community that seemed determined, at the very least, to cling to survival no matter what, the lack of noise seemed far more deafening in comparison.

Yet this silence was a welcome reprieve for all of Dawnstar's people, buoyed enough by the recent trend of good fortune that, for the first time in what felt like a long while, people were sleeping in their bedrolls without fear of succumbing to the sickness that seemed to lurk in the air like the shadow of Death. Inside this fortress—once a haven for the nightmares, and the Daedra that made them manifest—dreams of a far more benign nature flitted through the minds of all who slept within.

Save for one.

Grimnir Torn-Skull was, at this moment, nearly the exact opposite of everyone that slept on around him. He had spent the entire day all but immobile in the cellar where he stayed, while the others had busied and bustled on around him, doing their part to ensure their survival. Yet his mind had remained deep in thought, even as he lay in his hay pile, refusing to be extinguished by the onset of fatigue and the sweet embrace of dreamless sleep.

Sleep evaded him, even now—such was the intensity at which the Arch-Mage's brain continued to labor, in hopes of finding a quick fix to the conundrum that plagued the town. He had pored over all the knowledge he had perused in his time at the College—every tome he'd sampled in Urag's Arcanaeum, up to and including the restricted section, and all the tomes beyond that, locked away in his personal chambers. From that knowledge, a hundred possible solutions had been examined inside the mind within that rusting iron mask—and a hundred solutions had all been cast aside for, ultimately, the same reason: he could not leave the fortress, or he would be missed. People would fear the worst, causing morale to plummet, and running the risk of the Flu ensnaring them for good.

The prospect of that was enough to make any man lose sleep—and for a man many in Skyrim saw as a hero, if not a god, it was magnified a hundredfold, and a hundredfold again. Never had the weight of an entire city felt more crushing than it was right now.

And so Grimnir, unable to sleep, had roused himself with a grunt, leaving the cellar he'd come to call merely his _cell_ , and set off into the creaking corridors of Nightcaller Temple.

That had been half an hour ago. In that time, Grimnir had slowly ambled through the hallways, without any set destination in mind. Nor did he have any sort of route; all he felt like doing was standing up and walking wherever his legs decided to take him.

He listened to the shuffling noise of his shoes against the stone, trying to focus his mind on something—anything—else besides his own helplessness. Occasionally, the sleeping figures of the townsfolk would catch his attention, if only for a few moments; he'd already walked past Colette and Madena, both of whom had looked and sounded thoroughly exhausted—neither of them had bothered to check up on his health before turning in for the night.

"Hail, Dragonborn."

Had the Arch-Mage been in better health and spirits, he might have jumped at the greeting. But surprised as he was, he was too deep in his thoughts to do more than turn in the direction of the voice.

The watch was sparser than usual tonight—Grimnir had only encountered half a dozen guards on his meandering walk through Nightcaller Temple. This was not simply because the Flu had decimated Dawnstar's guard so thoroughly, but also because the townsfolk were beginning to adapt to life inside the fortress, to the point that less and less guards were needed to restore order in the event of any unpleasant circumstances.

As of now, the only other guards on patrol tonight, besides the six Grimnir had already encountered, were the other six that guarded Nightcaller Temple from the outside: the two posted by the door at all times, and another four to keep vigil over the fortress grounds in case of an attack, or an animal wandering too close for comfort. Odahviing was there, too, but his attention was focused solely on the vessel anchored offshore, waiting for the ghostly presence commanding it to make its move.

"Hail," he eventually nodded back to the guard. "Sorry … trouble sleeping. Needed to clear my head."

"I know the feeling, aye." The Nord shook his helmed head. "Don't know how all these people can sleep at night, knowing they could die if one thing goes wrong."

"From what I hear, it's been going better over the past day." That wasn't entirely true; Grimnir knew full well of Seren's condition—but he'd also heard Colette speaking with Madena before they'd turned in about their plans to bring more people in to supplement her and Rustleif's efforts.

"It'll take more good news than that before I can sleep soundly again," the guard huffed. "They can make this place a paradise for all I care. Good fresh Skyrim air is what every Nord needs. You won't find that in here."

"Hear, hear," Grimnir muttered halfheartedly. "Anyhow … don't let me keep you from doing your rounds. I'm heading back down. Maybe I've walked enough that I'll be able to nod off for a time tonight."

"Best of luck." The guard nodded once at him, before turning back to resume his patrol. Feeling far from rested, Grimnir nonetheless began to proceed back the way he'd arrived, where his hay pile sat waiting for him.

Along the way, he passed the room where Colette and Madena had laid out their bedrolls. The door was ajar, and both women were snoring uproariously—yet another testament to how hard they'd been working over the past few days, Grimnir thought. He didn't think that someone as small as a Breton woman, let alone two, was capable of making such noise.

He turned away, making as if to shut the door, and by chance his single eye alighted upon the dresser that stood near the door. It was bare but for some writing implements, a handful of candles that were little more than melted stubs, and a single sheet of parchment that lay among them, face-down, exposing the wax that had bound it into a scroll.

Wax that Grimnir couldn't help but notice _bore the seal of the College of Winterhold_.

Frowning, he slowly reached for the letter—then, just as suddenly, lowered his hand. Colette—and possibly Madena—knew what was in this letter, yet they hadn't bothered to tell him one had arrived today. Perhaps it was meant to be a private matter, but Grimnir couldn't fathom what Colette would want to keep from him that he didn't already know. He'd heard their conversation a few nights back, right before the evacuation had taken place—he'd heard their talk of Curalmil and this "White Phial".

He felt his hand reaching out again. If they were searching for artifacts to help in their efforts to cure Dawnstar, then this letter might mean they'd brought the College into their search, and that they were using their own resources to confirm her suspicions. And that might mean—

The parchment was in his fingers almost before Grimnir knew what happened. He took in the writing, reading it line by line, letter by letter.

And all at once, any thought of sleep had deserted him once more.

Could it be?

The thought that had just entered his mind was one of many he'd entertained today—only to be discarded as too time-consuming. But all of those thoughts and plans had one thing in common … or to put it more accurately, lacked something in common.

The letter nestled in Grimnir's hand had just given him that _something_.

The question was … what to do with it?

The answer to _that_ , he knew, was obvious—but was it the right thing to do?

Grimnir thought of everything that had happened since Dawnstar had been herded into this desolate fortress, forced into a home-away-from-home that no one was really sure would stay that way or not. He thought of Karl and Gjak, their bodies naught but ashes now because of a simple mistake on the part of one, and the grief of the other that had proved too much to bear. He thought of Fruki and Lond, whose fates would likely never be left resolved, and who had very likely died knowing they would never be rescued. He thought of Colette and Madena, who on top of working almost non-stop to save this city, had agreed to bear a dangerous lie on their shoulders. He thought of Rustleif and Seren, of the town blacksmith whose will must surely be made of the same steel he must shape every day, to keep soldiering on even as his wife and child laid on death's door.

And he thought of himself, shut away from the whole world out of fear—out of a risk that all would be lost if the secret he carried in his body was discovered.

It was a thought that sickened him more than the Knahaten Flu ever could.

 _The hell with this_ , he thought—and he grabbed a quill and ink from the dresser. He only needed to write a few short words, and then he was on his way. He was careful to leave the letter exactly as he'd found it before setting off.

Grimnir Torn-Skull had made his decision: he would be kept in this prison no longer.

* * *

Ten minutes later—five of which had been spent keeping out of sight of the night watch—the Arch-Mage found himself mere feet away from the single door that separated Dawnstar from the outside world.

This was the hard part of his plan—he knew two people were supposed to be either side of this door at all times, and he did not trust the night watch to stay away from this section for very long. Yet Grimnir felt strangely light-headed, despite the heavy mask he wore—feeling so close to freedom seemed to energize him.

He flexed his fingers, felt his robes flutter in the draft that slipped through the door. He carried nothing with him—neither in his hands nor his robes; he would worry about supplies later. All he needed were two things—and as he took a deep breath, he felt them rise up inside him.

In each hand, dark red energy swirled at his fingertips. He would apply this last, but the magic he was building up was not of a spell he was accustomed to using. In fact, of the five branches of magic at his disposal, this was very likely the one he excelled in the least. No—first, he would apply a different sort of magic … one that as a Nord, he had vastly more skill with using.

But he would only get one shot to use them both—and he would have to act quickly after that.

He could hear footsteps coming from behind him—the guard was on its way past here. _The time was now_.

His mind thus set, Grimnir took a deep breath …

_"Zul … "_

and exhaled.

_" … mey gut."_

The effect of the Shout was immediate. A small burst of blue wind expelled itself from Hevnoraak's iron lips, flaring into nothingness bare feet from where Grimnir stood.

Then, at the opposite end of the room he was in—directly across from the door he'd turned away from in order to Shout—there came a voice.

_"Over here!"_

It was not Grimnir's—in fact, it didn't belong to anyone. It wasn't supposed to, and that was the entire point of the Shout he'd just used; it was just loud enough, and plain enough, to make anyone who heard it think it could have come from anyone, anywhere.

Sure enough, Grimnir heard a commotion on the other side of the door—the guards outside had heard. But there was no time to celebrate; the magic he'd concentrated in his hands had been building up for long enough.

He released it—and instantly felt a sensation like warm egg yolks spreading across his body—starting at his hands, then enveloping his arms, his shoulders, and finally his entire body, clothes and all—he looked at his gloved hands, his ornate blue robes, for one last glimpse of his form—

The invisibility spell had barely settled over him when the door to the outside burst open. Two guards rushed in, joining the two who'd appeared at the other end of the hall.

"What is it?"

"What was what?"

"I thought I heard one of you just now!"

"We thought that was you! One of you said 'Over here', and—"

None of the four guards noticed a faint haze slip out into the night—and ten minutes later, none of them would think any further of the matter.

* * *

Scarcely had he taken his first step outside when Grimnir had instantly become grateful for three things. The first was the less-than-stellar weather he'd stepped into. The snow would have revealed his footprints to the guards once they'd returned to their posts—but so fierce was the wind, this close to the sea, that any trace of him had been obliterated in a matter of seconds.

So it was that—barely a minute after he'd stepped out of Nightcaller Temple—the invisibility spell had lifted, and Grimnir had popped out of thin air right next to the bowed, ice-encrusted neck of Odahviing.

The Dragonborn's loyal steed he might have been—but none of the guards had nearly enough courage to have their patrol paths cross with a red dragon, on the off chance he might be feeling hungry enough for a snack. They'd left him largely to himself, therefore—and it was this that gave the Arch-Mage his second stroke of good luck.

His third reason occurred to him the moment Odahviing opened his mouth. " _Drem yol lok, thuri_. Your _Thu'um_ cannot deceive my ears."

So low was his muttered voice that the wind made it nearly impossible for Grimnir to hear him—and, he realized belatedly, even more so for the guards to hear anything, either.

"First time for everything, Odahviing." And in truth, he'd never seen a reason to employ the Shout the Greybeards had—somewhat unimaginatively—referred to as Throw Voice. "But it wasn't _your_ ears I was looking to deceive."

The red dragon hummed pensively. "You would not come all this way for _tinvaak_ with me. Not when you have gone to so much trouble to leave this _hofkahsejun_ without being seen."

"You're right. There's no time for debate," Grimnir said. "I need you to listen carefully, Odahviing. There's work to be done, and little time to get it done. Here's what you need to do … "

* * *

_The next morning_

"Get up! _Get—up!_ "

Madena was roused from her sleep with considerably more force—and noise—than she'd expected. Tiny hands that could only have belonged to Colette were shaking her so violently that her head slipped and bumped against the stone floor with a solid _thunk_.

The Breton swore floridly as she flailed in her bedroll—but Colette still continued to badger her. "Get up—we've got trouble!"

"Whuzzamadder?" she mumbled, cracking open an eye.

She saw the blurry form of Colette brandishing something bare inches from her face—a small sheaf of parchment that looked vaguely familiar to her.

Willing her eyes to open up to their fullest, Madena took the scroll, and began to read:

 

 

> _Colette,_
> 
> _I will not waste time in replying. My contacts have assured me the Draconian Madstone is no longer being kept in Bruma; less than a month ago, the private collection it was a part of was burglarized, and the Madstone was stolen. Nothing else appears to have been taken, but Narina Carvain, Countess of Bruma and the owner of the collection, was found dead—along with the men that guarded it._
> 
> _The Imperial government is trying to downplay it as a bandit attack, but I've also been told that the guard patrols at Skyrim's southern border have been monitoring a group of spellswords, holed up in a nearby cave known locally as Southfringe Sanctum. It seems these spellswords were responsible for the burglary, for reasons my sources have not yet been able to determine. They were discovered by the countess, who they then murdered, and fled to Skyrim soon after to escape Imperial justice._
> 
> _Colette, I don't know why simple spellswords would do this—nor do I know why the Empire, such as it is, would wish to deliberately mischaracterize the death of one of their own nobility. Perhaps, like us, it may be a simple matter of trying to avoid a panic. As for this Madstone, I wish it were a simple matter of retrieving it, but given the distance between you and this Sanctum, and the severity of the disease you are helping to contain, I strongly advise you to pursue other, quicker avenues of assisting the people of Dawnstar._
> 
> _Send the Arch-Mage my best wishes. Phynaster be with you all._
> 
> _Enthir_

 

Madena looked up from the letter, frowning. "What about it? This is the same letter you showed me yesterday." Although, now she had a good look at her, Colette seemed in a right temper about something.

The mage of Winterhold did not blink. "Turn it over," she said flatly through clenched teeth.

Madena did—and swore under her breath when she saw it. It was only three words—but each of those three words might as well have been a kick in the gut for all they implied:

 

 

> _I'll come back._

 

There was no signature, but Madena was quite sure who'd written those words—and she wasn't happy about it at all. "Don't tell me he's—"

"Gone." Colette's face was blotchy with simultaneous fury and fear, making it look like an ill-fated, undercooked attempt at a snowberry crostata. "And so is Odahviing."

Madena felt as if the bottom had dropped out of her stomach. This was the worst possible news they could have received. "How many people know?"

"Right now it's just the two of us. But it won't stay that way for long," Colette said darkly. "People tend to notice when a _red dragon_ isn't hanging around. I wouldn't be surprised if Skald's coming over to chew us out right now."

The court mage was utterly lost. "What on earth do we do now?"

Colette's face was stony. "The same thing we've been doing ever since we arrived at this temple. We help … we heal … we _hope_."

"Hope for _what_?" The very word seemed alien to Madena now.

"It's not hard to guess where Grimnir's gone," said Colette. "We can only hope that we're still alive by the time he gets back. Because if we're not," she growled, "I'm going to haunt that _bastard_ until the day he dies."

She held out a hand. Her voice was resolute. "Let's go. We've got work to do."

The court mage allowed herself to be led away—but she could no longer see any point in doing anything anymore. Grimnir escaping the fortress was bad enough—but Odahviing, their chief defense against the Crimson Ship, gone with him?! Suddenly, there was nothing to defend the town against the unseen threat that ship possessed—and the town's chief source of morale had vanished, for all intents and purposes, into thin air!

The stalemate in Dawnstar had been broken, a terrified Madena now realized— _and Dawnstar itself is next in line_.


End file.
